


something old, something new

by residentdogenthusiast



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Arranged Marriage, Classism, M/M, Wealth Importance, semi-modern au
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-12-22
Updated: 2019-07-07
Packaged: 2019-09-24 11:43:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 22,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17099957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/residentdogenthusiast/pseuds/residentdogenthusiast
Summary: Arranged marriages were a common affair—especially in a world where your hand in marriage is only worth as much as your dowry, and you are your parents property until they say otherwise. Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette—heir to a French title and wealthy import business—had just never expected he’d be subjected one. (an alternate universe where marriages between young heirs and older affluent people are arranged for power, wealth, and the continuity of financial security)





	1. pas la fin du monde.

**Author's Note:**

> unless its like, small sentences or phrases, all words spoken in French will be italicized

Lafayette stares out of the black tinted windows of his family’s personal car as the streets pass by, just barely listening to Adrienne as she chatters merrily along beside him. His hazel eyes follow the rain droplets as they glide down the window, and he finds a small childlike joy in watching the little drips leaving near speedy trails behind them as they come to pool at the bottom. He feels his mind floating off in the skies above—a daydreaming quality that his father had tried to scold out of him. He imagines himself flying along skies that were a shining blue instead of the dreary gray, with fluffy white clouds and the sunlight warming his face.

“ _Can you_ believe _that pompous jerk, Voltaire, today? Thinking he has any right to my hand in marriage! You know, Daddy would nev_ — _Gilbert. Gilbert, are you listening?”_ Adrienne harshly snaps, finger jamming into his shoulder and yanking him from his peaceful reverie. Gilbert finally tears his eyes away from the windows where he’d been staring off into space, and gives a curt apology for not listening. There’s something about gloomy, dark, rainy days that always took him far away. Maybe it was the melancholy rain represented that affected his mood.

He glances back out the window again, watching as the houses turn from poorly-taken care of shambles into the well-designed towers of mansions that he was familiar with. Even with the nicer change of scenery, the rain makes every shining mansion look like a tower a princess might be locked away in forever. Gilbert’s bottom lip juts out slightly, forming a pout. _“I feel like a child, but I hate rainy days."_

 _“You are sunshine, darling._ Of course _the sun hates the rain,”_ Adrienne beams brightly at him,  a sly smile on her face. He rolls his eyes at the pickup line, but still a smile teases his lips. She always knew how to cheer him up in ways that no other could. He imagines, in another life, Adrienne would’ve been his wife. With her charm, quick wits and good looks—they would’ve made quite the unstoppable couple. But this wasn’t another life, and he wouldn’t trade the relationship he had with his best friend for the world.

“ _I adore you, you know this? Are you coming over today? Nounou is preparing a stew, and she says it’s for some sort of a special occasion, and I’d imagine she’d want you to celebrate with us,”_ he offers, because the street their driver turns down looks familiar and he knows he’ll be arriving at the Lafayette residence soon. Adrienne wrinkles her nose in distaste.

 _“It’s going to be a meatless stew, I just know it. I’ll take my chances with my mother’s burnt atrocities,”_ she jokes. It was no secret that Mrs. de Noailles had no talent in the kitchen—she had grown up in the lap of privilege, and had never learned—and despite having all of the cooks and maids on hand that she could dream of, she still insisted on trying to do everything herself. _“But whatever the celebration is, tell your parents congratulations.”_

Just as Adrienne says this, the driver rolls into the driveway of Gilbert’s home. Once more Gilbert is barely paying attention—but this time, it isn’t his best friend that doesn’t have his full focus, but rather the suspicious black SUV sitting beside his father’s car in the driveway. He glances at it briefly, but gives a nonchalant shrug and turns back to Adrienne.

Both he and his best friend kiss each other on the cheeks, and Gilbert waves a cheery goodbye—with promises for the two of them to talk on the phone later—before speed walking up the driveway in efforts to prevent any rain from wetting his clothes. He knows his old nanny will lecture him about forgetting an umbrella, and he is bracing himself for the scolding as he turns his key in the lock.

But instead of an instant chiding from Nounou, he is greeted by the sounds of loud sobbing. It’s not an unusual sound in the Lafayette household—ever since his mother had been diagnosed with manic depression, she spent much of her time in bed. Sometimes, when his father would try to visit with her, she’d cry—sometimes because they argued about her illness, but most times because Michel didn't know how to talk to his wife anymore. Gilbert suspects that this is the problem and sighs—dropping his backpack on the floor by the door and beginning through the foyer. He often found himself wishing his Dad would wait for him to get home from classes to try to talk to his mother. Conversations with her were a minefield, one that Michel de Lafayette had no idea how to navigate.

 _“Mama, I’m home!”_ he calls, but is stopped short when his feet touch the living room. His Mother is not in her bed—where she spent most of her days—but sitting on the couch downstairs. It is indeed Louise de Lafayette crying, ugly sobs raking her body and her face red and splotchy from the tears. But Gilbert doesn’t fall into his usual routine of comforting her. Mostly because his Father and a strange man are both staring at him, and the blanket of tension in the room has wrapped itself around him. He finds his legs unable to move, his eyes frozen on the display in front of him.

The mysterious man is handsome, admittedly. He wears a well-tailored navy blue suit, and shoes so shiny Lafayette can see the reflection of the chandelier in them. He’s a strong-looking man, with broad shoulders and large arms. He has bushy dark eyebrows and equally dark, alluring eyes. And he’s tall—he towers over Michel de Lafayette with alarming height. Height that intimidates Gilbert, has him standing a little straighter and his squaring his shoulders.

“Good evening, father. Good evening, sir,” Lafayette says politely, the English words feeling strange and unfamiliar on his tongue. Unless he was at school, he didn’t speak much of the English he’d been taught from a young age. Both of his closest friends were fluent in French, and at home, his mother forbade English being used unless they have company. She insisted she didn’t want her son to lose his ties to his French heritage. _It’s bad enough your father has erased your Creole ancestry, dear, don’t let him erase your French one, too._

“Good evening, Gilbert. How was school? Did you enjoy any of your classes today?” his Father asks, the smile on his lips feeling tight and fake. Gilbert swallows thickly. There was no doubt Michel de Lafayette loved his family dearly, Lafayette would never let his mother insist otherwise. But he wasn’t an affectionate man. It was very rare he took much care in Gilbert’s classes or his life, as he spent most of his waking hours either at the office or in his home office. So for him to suddenly be so interested in what Gilbert is doing, it unsettles him—alarm bells ringing in his ears, anxiety settling just beneath his skin.

“School was fine. Is Maman alright?” he asks, finally willing his legs to move forward. He settles on the couch next to his mother, rubbing soothing circles on her back and trying to stop the crying. She’s practically in hysterics. “ _Mama, what’s wrong? Are you alright?”_

Michel clears his throat, picking up a mug of tea that Gilbert hadn’t noticed was on the coffee table. “You know that’s _rude_ , Gilbert—to speak in a language others don’t understand. Be considerate of our guest. This is Mr. Washington—Mr. George Washington.”

“Hello, Mr. Washington. I’m Gilbert,” he says, glancing at the man only briefly before turning his attention back to his mother. He carefully guides Louise to her feet, supporting most of the woman’s weight. He starts for the stairs, wondering how he’s going to practically carry this woman up to the bedroom she shared with his father. It seems an almost impossible feat. “I’m going to get Maman to bed, Papa. Enjoy your meeting.”

“Gilbert, wait,” Michel insists, before Lafayette can make any more movements. Gilbert turns to look at his father over his shoulder, attempting to school his face into one of ‘attentiveness’ and not ‘exasperation’. He can’t fathom why Michel is so insistent to talk to him on today of all days—what effect this stranger was having on his family. But he knows that his mother is working herself up, and he needs to get her to bed before she starts to have a panic attack on top of her obvious depression. “I… I’ve had your things packed, son.”

At first, Lafayette doesn’t quite register the words. With his mothers wails only growing in volume, and his focus mostly on getting her to bed—and giving her some of her sleeping medication—he can’t exactly think too hard about what his father is saying to him. After all, why would his bags be packed—where was he going? He still had years left at University, and plenty of time before he went abroad for his studies. And to his knowledge, they wouldn’t be going on any vacation—they hadn’t taken a vacation in _years_ , mostly due to his mother’s illness and his father’s work. He can’t imagine why that would change now.

So he ignores his father. Rolls his eyes and turns back to his mother, tries to whispers words of comfort to her in order to calm her. But Michel grows agitated. “Did you hear me? I said your bags are packed. You’re leaving.”

“Leaving? To where?” Lafayette asks, growing more confused by the moment. The stranger—Mr. Washington—awkwardly shifts on his feet, watching the exchange with an obvious nervousness. Something, in Gilbert’s subconscious, connects the dots. But still, he can’t bring himself to really think about what is being said.

Now, his mother starts to speak—through the haze of tears, she manages to choke out in broken words, “ _Michel, please reconsider! Think of what you’re doing! He is our son! Our only son!”_

 _“Shut up, Louise!”_ Michel snaps angrily, before regaining his composure. He smooths down the jacket of his suit and takes a deep breath before approaching his son and wife. “Gilbert, Mr. Washington isn’t here for a business meeting. He’s here to take you to your new home. You two are to be wed.”

Gilbert freezes, his hold on his mother going slack. Considering he’d been supporting her, she collapses back down onto the couch and wails. He can’t will his body to react, to _move_. He finds himself paralyzed with a varying range of emotions. Fear. Surprise. Anger. Sadness.

Arranged marriages weren’t uncommon—especially in the upper echelon society of New York. Wealthy families fighting to keep their bloodlines pure and their purses filled sent their young heirs off to men and women that would keep them in comfort for all of their days. The wealthier someone was, the more likely it was they’d be married off when they reach a certain age. His parents had been in an arranged marriage—a marriage that had been happy, up until his mother fell ill when Gilbert was eleven—which just went to show how the practice seeped into everyday lives.

But Gilbert had naively thought he was safe from all of that. For one, he was gay and he had long doubted his parents would be able to find a man willing enough and rich enough to marry another man, nor would they be cruel enough to marry him off to a woman. And for two, his mother had always held arranged marriages with a bitter regard. She insisted that she was one of the lucky women—Michel wasn’t a cruel or violent man, just a distant one. And he blessed her with one amazing son—or so she liked to brag—that would do well in carrying on their bloodline. But one of her sister’s had been murdered by a man she’d been arranged to marry off to, and she would never force that fate onto her son.

It seems, however, that neither Louise nor Gilbert have much of a choice.

 _“He is a good man, this Mr. Washington. A kind man,"_ Michel assures, places both of his hands on his son’s shoulders. _“He will make you happy, son. And look_ — _he is handsome, is he not? You won’t spend your days being forced to look at and… service, some fat old roly poly.”_

Gilbert thinks the last part is supposed to make him laugh, and out of politeness, he does. He forces himself to smile and nod and chokes back the lump in his throat that threatens tears in his eyes. He realizes almost instantaneously that putting up a fight—sobbing, wailing, kicking and screaming—wouldn’t change anything. He’d still be engaged to this man, he’d still be due to fulfill all of his husbandly duties.

The only difference it would make, is that it would anger his father and draw out this already painful process.

Biting the inside of his cheek, Gilbert turns to his new fiance. He hopes that his father is right—that Mr. Washington is kind man, not a violent one. That he will manage to find happiness in a marriage based on money and not love.

 _“Does he speak French?”_ Gilbert asks softly, and Michel shakes his head.

_“He is miserable at it.”_

Gilbert bites the inside of his cheek so that he won’t sob. He wouldn’t even have the comfort of his native tongue at this new home.

House. He isn’t sure that whatever place he’ll share with George would ever feel like a home.


	2. welcome home.

When Michel and Mr. Washington finish discussing the last few details of the contract for engagement, Mr. Washington guides Gilbert out of the household and to the black SUV—where servants had already carried all of his belongings. The man is stiff beside him, almost as if he’s just as uncomfortable with the situation as Gilbert is—although the younger man doubts it, he wasn’t the one that had just been married off to a complete stranger against his will. And though he knows that marriage built off of bitterness could turn bad awfully quickly, he can’t help but feel a tiny bit of resentment towards the older man for even _daring_ to act like he got the rotten end of the stick.

It’s still raining when the two of them pile into the car—of which, to Gilbert’s surprise, Mr. Washington drives—but this time he doesn’t mind it. In fact, he welcomes the miserable weather with open arms. Its almost a perfect descriptor for how he feels. There is comfort in the lightning and thundering outside—it is reminiscent of the thundering going on in the widening hole in his chest.

Leaning his head against the window of the passenger seat, Gilbert closes his eyes and tries to imagine that he’s back in the car with his best friend—watching water drops race and listening to her bitch about how Voltaire is so self-important. He can almost put himself back in the moment, can almost hear the faint rasp of Adrienne’s voice—

“Gilbert,” Mr. Washington says, his voice coated with a thick Southern accent. Gilbert winces. Not only because he is jostled out of his imagination, but because the man pronounces his name all wrong—with a hard ‘t’ and a short ‘er’. It’s grating to the young man’s ears—or maybe it’s just because it’s his _fiance_ is the one saying it. Still—he doesn’t correct the man just yet. “I just want to extend my deepest apologies. It must be quite the shock, for all of this to be sprung onto you so quickly. But your father feared if we involved you in the negotiations for our engagement, you’d find some way to oppose. Mr. Lafayette was very adamant that this marriage be seen through.”

Gilbert bites the inside of his cheek so hard blood begins to pool in his mouth—but the pain and the tangy metallic taste of blood keep him from snapping back at the man in anger. Besides, he knows Mr. Washington is not the only one in this situation with any blame to his name. He isn’t surprised that the only reason he finds out about his engagement the day he goes off to live with his betrothed is because Michel had feared Gilbert’s rebellious nature. It wouldn’t have been the first time his father kept things from him in order to prevent as much resistance as possible—though, with his age, his defiance had waned considerably.

“Yes, well,” Gilbert manages out eventually, when he believes he won’t cry or scream or portray any other grand reaction. “I could possibly understand his thinking. However, it would’ve been nice to have a bit of preparation. I… I didn’t even get to say goodbye to my friends.”

And that was the worst part, wasn’t it? Adrienne wouldn’t know what had happened—she wouldn’t see him at school tomorrow, and he knows she’ll become worried. He wonders if his future husband will allow him any contact with his old life—will allow him to continue his schooling, to see his friends, to visit his parents. He had heard horror stories of young women and men being denied that small reprieve. Cut off from the lives they’d lived previously, forced to forget who they were before their betrothal.

“There’s no worry for any of that. Once you’ve settled in, I’m sure your friends would love to come visit. Or you could go visit them,” Mr. Washington says, waving his hand in dismissal. His eyes briefly flit to the young man’s face and he must see the anguish Gilbert is having a hard time masking, because he sighs. “Gilbert, I don’t want you to think that you’ll become my… my property. That’s not what any of this is about.”

Gilbert nods, but can’t bring himself to speak any more. Anxiety sickness is turning in his stomach—something he isn’t used to experiencing. He feels as though if he opens his mouth again, he might be sick. And if this really was the man he’d spend the rest of his life with, he didn’t want their first meeting to be clouded by the fact that he’d vomited all over the fancy, expensive looking car. Funny how that is—this man had just contracted him into marriage, and he’s still considerate of his first impression. The effect Michel de Lafayette had had on his son.

The rest of the car ride goes by in near silence. It seems to stretch on forever—as they move through the streets of New York, Gilbert finds that the rain lightens up before dissipating completely. He almost misses the comforting pattering of the rain drops on the roof of the car, as they’d blanketed the silence between them. It had done nothing to mask the uncomfortable tension buzzing between the two of them, so Gilbert supposes the comforting sounds of the rain been a band-aid and not an actual fix. There was nothing that could fix this.

After what feels like a millennium of driving in silence, Mr. Washington pulls his truck up to a set of black gates. It isn’t until he slows that Gilbert realizes that crowded roads and busy streets of New York had given way to lush green forests and dirt paths. It feels lonely and isolated, all of the trees that shadow the trail up to what he presumes will be his new house.

He watches as Mr. Washington presses a button on a panel outside the gates and they swing open, revealing a narrower winding dirt path. Gilbert shifts uncomfortably in his seat, trying to inconspicuously lean forward and look for his new home. It comes seconds later—vast and looming, with impressively white walls and gorgeous, carefully cared for gardens. The lawn is spreading and expansive, the lights on inside the house giving it an almost gold glimmer. Lafayette exhales through his nose. It’s even bigger than his own home. How much money had his parents offered this man? There was no way there was dowry big enough to impress a man as obviously rich as Mr. Washington.

The car engine turns off, and Mr. Washington leans back in the driver's seat, hands on his thighs. It’s obvious he’s searching for words to say that could possibly cheer up the young man—but he seems to find none, because he opens the car door and steps out. Gilbert barely has time to react before his own door is swinging open, and Mr. Washington is politely extending his hand. He accepts the hand, briefly marveling at how large and strong the older man’s is compared to his.

The two of them are barely out of the car before another man comes bustling out of the house—dark locks flying wildly around his face, but brown eyes bright and a small smile on his lips. Gilbert steps back when it seems as though he isn’t going to stop walking—simply collide into the unmovable force that is George Washington—but the young man grinds to a halt right in front of them. He’s extremely young—Gilbert even thinks the two of them may be close in age—but the stubble on his cheeks and the bags underneath his eyes age him a decade. The only thing betraying his age is how short he is compared to both Gilbert and George—the both of them seemingly towering over his frame.

“Mr. Washington, Monsieur Lafayette,” he says, greeting the both of them cheerily. Gilbert extends his hand and is surprised at how enthusiastic this man is when he shakes it—it feels as though his arm might come off. _“Welcome, Mister Lafayette. I cannot begin to tell you how excited George’s team is to welcome you here.”_

Gilbert is immediately taken aback by the sound of his language coming from this man’s lips, and it must be obvious because Alexander gives him a sheepish smile. _“I studied abroad in France._ My name is Alexander Hamilton. You can call me Alex. I’m George’s personal, live-in assistant. I handle most of his home and work affairs that he can’t attend to personally, so you’ll be seeing a lot of me around. I’ll also be in charge of making the arrangements for your wedding.”

“Careful, Hamilton. You don’t want to overwhelm him,” Mr. Washington says with a well-meaning chuckle, placing a comforting hand on Gilbert’s shoulder. Gilbert doesn’t even know where to begin to respond to Alexander’s statement, so he’s grateful for Mr. Washington’s intervention. “Gilbert, I’m going to leave you in the hands of Alexander, here. I have some matters to see to. Don’t let him intimidate you, darling. The only thing about Alexander that should offput you is how much he talks.”

Gilbert tries not to recoil at being called ‘darling’—well, he _says_ recoil, but his cheeks dust with a light shade of blush—and nods his head. He realizes too late how rude that is, because Mr. Washington is already gone—stalking off towards the house, where he undoubtedly will be working on abiding the guidelines of his father’s contract. His calm, stoic presence is replaced by Alexander’s energetic one and the young man beside him begins to guide him into the house after George.

“Don’t be surprised if you don’t see him for the rest of the day. George is a bit of a hermit. I’ve been working under him for four years now, and there isn’t a week that has passed where I’ve seen him consistently everyday,” Alexander babbles, wrapping a friendly arm around Gilbert’s shoulder. Or at least trying to, his arm doing more reaching than wrapping. “I must say, you are _far_ more attractive in person than in the photographs your father sent us during negotiations.”

It takes Gilbert a second too long to realize Alexander is shamelessly flirting with him—mostly because he’s wondering where his father had acquired recent pictures of him to send to these men—and when he does, he can only manage to stutter out, “I’m engaged.”

Alexander seems to think it’s funny, though, because he tosses his head back and laughs. “Of course, you are! To George, no less! You won’t believe how lucky you are once you get to know him. George is a good man. _And he’s never had any complaints in the sack, either.”_

The last part is added with a suggestive wink, but Gilbert doesn’t find himself amused by it. His stomach turns at even the _idea_ of sleeping with this strange man. Not only because he isn’t exactly the type to go around having sex with strangers, but also because he’s still a virgin. Shamefully inexperienced, the extent of his knowledge had never gotten any further than heavy petting with a few ex-boyfriends. He can hardly fathom the idea of losing his virginity to a man he’d only met two hours ago—can almost picture himself bumbling around in the sheets like an idiot, making a fool of himself—so the joke just makes his stomach turn with anxiety.

Seemingly not picking up on Gilbert’s obvious discomfort, Alexander continues to talk up how great of a person George Washington is. A talent picked up from years of his parents arguing, Gilbert tunes out the man’s chattering—focuses instead on the space around him. The house looks much larger on the inside than the outside, which is certainly an astounding feat. Tastefully designed and decorated, Gilbert finds his expensively cobbled boots clicking against the smooth, maple-colored hardwood floors. Brown leather couches and an expensive looking entertainment system make up the living room—which is where Alexander seats him.

“I’ll have some workers bring your bags in, in a bit. Can I interest you in something to drink? Wine, brandy?” Alexander offers, perusing a liquor cabinet in the corner of the room. Gilbert swallows thickly. He’s never had alcohol before—well, aside from the occasional spiked hot chocolate his mother had given him in childhood. Call him a goody-two shoes, but he had been dutifully waiting until he’s twenty-one. Adrienne had said that if he didn’t build up his tolerance he’d be shitfaced on his birthday, but he had ignored her.

“Do you have water?” he asks, ignoring the temptation of alcohol. He wants nothing more than to get blindingly drunk—like his Nana used to do. Forget that he’s miles away from home, forget that he’s suddenly engaged, forget that his future had been bought and sold like a commodity. But he knows that when he wakes up, the only thing that would be different is a pounding hangover. And he’d coached Adrienne through too many of those to want to experience one of his own.

Alexander nods his head—pouring Gilbert a glass of water from a pitcher, and then mixing himself a glass of expensive looking liquor. He settles in on the couch beside the young man and passes the water, which Gilbert sips politely—not daring to gulp, to make himself seem like an untrained barbarian in front of these strangers. Remembering the etiquette classes his mother had put him in—he’d embarrassingly been the only boy in etiquette classes—he crosses his legs at the knee and sets his glass on one of the coasters on the table.

“So, Gilbert,” Alexander begins, and the pronunciation of his name on his tongue feels much better than the way Mr. Washington had butchered it. Gilbert perks up a little. “Tell me about yourself. Anything, everything. I want to know you.”

“Shouldn’t my future husband be asking these questions?” Gilbert finds himself asking, almost bitterly. He bites his tongue too late, worry befalling his expression. Alex’s cheeriness droops a little bit, and he takes a deliberating sip of his whiskey. “I’m _so_ sorry, I don’t mean to be rude—”

“No, no, you’re right,” Alexander sighs, setting down his glass—not on a coaster. Gilbert can almost hear his mother’s fit in his ears. It’s only been a few hours, but he terribly misses her already. “George should be here, flirting and bantering and getting to know you. But I find lately that I fill his shoes on a lot of things he doesn’t want to do. He is… a reserved, man. It takes awhile for him to come out of his shell with new people.”

Gilbert nods his head thoughtfully. He supposes that is fair. Afterall, he was as much a stranger to Mr. Washington as Mr. Washington was a stranger to him. He can only imagine how all of this must feel from the other side. _There you go again,_ his thoughts—sounding strangely of Adrienne—lecture him. _The man quite literally just signed a contract for you._

“My favorite color is blue. Navy blue, and gold,” Gilbert confesses, slowly and awkwardly feeling his way through the conversation. Alexander is a great help—he’s attentive, and he seems to genuinely be listening to him as he speaks. “and I like music a lot. In fact, I was trained in playing the piano and violin in my childhood, and my best friend taught me how to play the drums. I’m studying criminology and sociology at NYU. I mean, I _was_.”

“You are,” Alex corrects. “Just because your engaged, doesn’t mean your life stops. You can still have a career and be married, Gilbert, you know this.”

“I suppose. I just don’t know if I’ll still be able to attend classes this far away from University.”

“I can drive you, if necessary,” a voice says from behind the two. Startled, Gilbert nearly jumps out of his seat—and it must be comical, because it earns a few chuckles. When he whips around, there are two more men standing behind him. One is tall—almost as tall as Mr. Washington. He’s got strong arms that cross over his broad chest, and dark skin that glows under the bright lights of the chandelier hanging above the living room. A soft gray beanie rests atop a head full of dark curls, and deep brown eyes seem to glow with a smile. 

The other man is a little shorter, but also taller than Alexander. He’s got honey brown curls that have been pulled away in from his face in a tight ponytail. His light skin is smattered with soft brown freckles and his green eyes are soft and half-lidded. Judging by the inquisitive expression his face, he was the one that offered to drive Gilbert to his classes.

“John Laurens,” he introduces, moving around the couch to sit in the recliner beside the two of them. He crosses his legs on the chair and seems comfortable and relaxed in his surroundings. He’s obviously older than Alexander, but not by much—seems to be in his mid-twenties. “I’m George’s personal chef, but I also keep the grounds in order. I hire and fire staff as necessary, make sure everything is in top shape. Alexander sure as hell has no idea what he’s doing.”

Alexander sticks his tongue out at the other man childishly, but it only makes John smile back at him warmly. There’s an energy there between the two of them—the air between them is almost electric. Gilbert wonders what that is—he wonders if he’ll ever be able to have it with Mr. Washington.

“And Hercules Mulligan,” the broad-shouldered man introduces, taking the couch space beside Lafayette. He extends his hand and shakes it—much gentler and softer than Alexander had initially. “I’m George’s tailor. I pretty much design and sew all of those fancy suits you’ll see him wearing.”

Gilbert nods his head, taking all the information in. It’s a lot to process in such a little amount of time, but the presence of other people distracts him from the missing presence of his future husband. “I am Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette. But you can call me Lafayette, if you’re unaware on how to properly pronounce my name.”

He realizes the words come off as snarky too late, as John makes an impressed face and Hercules claps him on the shoulder with a loud guffaw. Alexander looks between the three of them with a fire in his eyes.

“He’s got feist, doesn’t he?” he asks his friends, who agree wholeheartedly. Gilbert slinks down in his seat a bit. He hates to disappoint, but his days of feist and rebellion were long behind him—those were his youthful days, when his future was sprawling and the days seemed endless. But as he’d grown, he’d matured, and thus he is not the fire that these men expect of him.

“Yes, well, George has always been attracted to the firecrackers. Obviously, he hired Alex,” Hercules teases, and Alex responds by reaching behind Gilbert to punch him in the shoulder. The blow obviously does nothing, as the older man quickly laughs it off. “C’mon, Lafayette. I’ll take you up to the guest room.”

Lafayette inhales sharply at the mention of a room. He hadn’t even given thought to where he would sleep that night—though he knew he wasn’t quite ready to share a bed with the man. He finds a sense of relief is washing over him as he rises to his feet with Hercules. He realizes, now that sleeping in the bed with Mr. Washington tonight would be inappropriate anyways—his mother had often told him the stories of his father sneaking into her bedroom at night, because their parents forbade them from sharing a bed until the wedding.

Hercules points Gilbert in the direction of the staircase, and the two ascend to just the second floor. When they’re out of earshot and standing in front of the bedroom door, Hercules turns Gilbert so that he’s facing him. His voice takes on a somber tone, and the seriousness sobers the young man. “I can only imagine how you’re feeling right now. I want you to take some time, alright? Away from John and Alexander and George and I. Get some rest. Allow yourself to process this.”

Gilbert nods his head, and despite not knowing whether or not Hercules speaks French, says, “ _Thank you so much for your kindness. You and John and Alexander, too._ I’m going to rest now.”

Hercules nods and offers him a gentle smile before turning and heading back down the stairs. He listens after him for awhile, listens to him explain to Alexander and John that he’d gone to take a nap. Once the men have obviously dispersed to handle their own affairs, Gilbert allows himself to relax.

He turns and opens the door to what will be his bedroom, taking in the softly painted blue walls and the large king size bed in the center with the soft white sheets. His bags have already been taken up to his room, and they sit on a trunk at the foot of the bed. The room has bright white curtains that Gilbert goes to pull—blanketing the room in dark shadows.

When he sits on the bed, he suddenly finds himself completely drained—both physically and emotionally. It’s almost as if Hercules’ words had flipped a switch inside of him—had turned off the polite composure he’d been displaying and allowed his true emotions to come forth. The sadness, resentment and tiredness of the day hit him all at once, and he curls up in ball on the sheets.

He’s dozing off when he feels a wetness on his face, and he brings his fingers up to his cheeks. They pull away wet with salty tears, and Gilbert finally allows himself to choke out a small sob.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> how would alexander know how good george is in bed? well, that’s for you to decide fam


	3. chocolat chaud.

Gilbert wakes up from a restless sleep late in the evening, long after the sun has set. He can tell it’s already dark out simply by glancing around the room, and he wonders how long he’s been asleep for. It feels like hours as he stands and stretches—catching a glimpse of himself in the mirror hanging above his dresser. His curls have fallen from the ponytail he usually kept them in, and they fall messily around his shoulders—framing his face in a away that is almost attractive. Or it would be, if he didn’t look so disheveled. His button-up shirt has wrinkled, his lips are dry and cracked, and his eyes are puffy and red from crying himself to sleep.

 Throat dry when he swallows, Gilbert decides to go downstairs for a glass of water. He doesn’t even know where the kitchen is, but he figures he’ll find his way somehow. Peeking his head out his bedroom, Gilbert looks up and down the hallway. The entire house is dead quiet, almost all of the lights are off—except for one. Golden light spills onto the dark carpet from a door cracked open further down the hall, and despite his instincts telling him not to, he follows it.

He realizes as he approaches that this must be Mr. Washington’s bedroom or office. He can hear the man talking inside, his voice low and his tone serious. Someone else is speaking, too—Gilbert eventually makes out the voice to belong to Alexander. Whatever they’re talking about, it seems as if they’re keen on no one listening in.

 _I should go,_ Gilbert thinks, eyes darting between the crack in the door and the hallway. He knows he should leave—that if they’re speaking lowly, it’s probably for a good reason. The conversation is obviously deeply private, and he doesn’t want to seem as though he’s intruding. Still, his feet carry him forward instead of turning on their heels and marching the other way.

 _Merde._ His better instincts leave him, and he peers through the crack in the door. Mr. Washington is shirtless inside the bedroom, his chest broad and his muscles flexes beneath his tan skin. Gilbert finds his tongue darting out to moisten his dry lips. The man was much older, but he wasn’t _disgusting_. Anyone with functioning eyes could see how attractive he is. _This feels wrong._

“I don’t know, Alexander. Maybe this is all a mistake,” Mr. Washington hums, picking up a sleep shirt and pulling it over his head. Inside the room, Gilbert can hear Alexander pacing the carpeted floors. _Was this man always so energetic?_ Gilbert wonders wearily. The vibrancy Alex possessed exhausted even Gilbert, who was also known to be spirited on his good days. If Alexander was always this jumpy, he isn’t sure he’ll be able to tolerate too much of his presence.

“No, no, you can’t say that,” Alexander hisses violently, and Gilbert watches as he enters into the small frame of vision. His hair is pulled up, and the bags under his eyes seem exacerbated under the shadows of nighttime. “You can’t renege on this, George. We need their influence, and they need our money.”

“I have influence of my own, son,” Mr. Washington lectures, setting down at the foot of the bed to take off his socks. His voice is one of a father lecturing his child, not two business-minded equals having a discussion. He wonders if George’s voice carries that sort of lecturing tone with everyone, or just the feisty Alexander. “I don’t need fancy French aristocracy to carry my company.”

“Still, it doesn’t hurt to have a fucking Marquis for a husband,” Alexander spits, and Gilbert winces. He hopes they didn’t actually believe his titles carried any real weight. They were just that—titles, something to fill his already dreadfully long name. They held no power in the French government, and hadn’t for a very long time. All the name ‘Marquis’ came with was money, land and a small bit of American influence. It had been why his father had moved them to America in the first place. _Americans are naïve, Gilbert,_ he remembers his father lecturing him lightly when they were packing up their home in Auvergne. _You wave a fancy title in their face, and they’ll fall over themselves to please you._

“It wouldn’t hurt anyone except the boy. _He cried himself to sleep_ , Alexander, for god sakes!” George shouts, before seemingly remembering that people in the house are sleeping. His voice is a harsh whisper when he speaks again. “This is wrong! He’s practically a child.”

“He’s nineteen, grown enough to pay his debts to his family and certainly grown enough to marry. And you can’t tell me you aren’t bloody attracted to him. You haven’t looked at anyone like that since…” Alexander’s sentence trails off, and Gilbert finds it’s because Mr. Washington is giving his assistant a cold glare. The look is so icy, that goosebumps prickles on his own skin—and he’s not even the subject of it. Gilbert would shudder to think about ever finding himself on the opposite end of Mr. Washington’s displeasure.

“I’ve had enough of this conversation, Alexander. I’m taking him home tomorrow.”

“You can’t,” Alexander whines, and Mr. Washington raises a questioning eyebrow. Alex is quiet for a few moments, staring at his hands before he finally squeaks out, “I’ve already sent them the money.”

“You _what_?!” Mr. Washington roars, and this time he has no problem being loud. Gilbert visibly startles, and loses his balance at the sudden outrage. He trips and falls against the door, slamming it the rest of the way shut and certainly alerting the two men to his presence. Inside the room, it falls completely silent.

Gilbert stills, eyes widen and hands shaking. He knows he’s been caught eavesdropping, and he should probably make his way back to his bedroom—dry throat be damned. But he can’t will himself to move his feet, which seems to have become a common occurence recently. His eyes dart between the door and the hallway, nervousness twisting itself in knots in his stomach. Eventually, he decides that it’d be worse to lie and hide than simply own up to his faults.

Sharply, he raps against the door three times. There is hushed arguing on the other side of the wood—words he can’t quite make out, but obviously frustrated or angry ones. Then the door swings open and Mr. Washington is standing there—staring down at him with surprisingly gentle eyes. Compared to the coldness he’d pointed at Alexander earlier, it’s a drastic change.

“I-I’m terribly sorry, Mr. Washington. But I wanted a drink of water and I didn’t know where the kitchen is,” Gilbert hurries out, his voice soft but raspy from the sleep. Mr. Washington stares at him for a few moments, his gaze… indescribable. There’s something soft and kind in the way he looks at Gilbert, something oddly comforting.

After a few moments, the man looks over his shoulder to where Alexander is chewing on his fingernails with anticipation. He jerks his head towards the door, a clear indication for the young assistant to get out. Alexander’s face almost instantly falls.

“Sir, but we have much to discuss—”

“Go, Alexander. Get some rest. Real rest,” he demands. Alexander looks helplessly between Gilbert and Mr. Washington, before exhaling sharply through his nose and pushing past the younger man. It’s a hostility that he hadn’t displayed earlier, and Gilbert can’t help but think it has something to do with the argument he and George had been having. He doesn’t have too much time to dwell on it though, because George is slipping out of his bedroom and taking the lead—clearly intending for the young man to follow him. So he does.

The two descend the stairs and pass the living room, into a fancily designed kitchen with stainless steel kitchenware and marble countertops. It’s much more expensive looking than the kitchen Gilbert had spent most of his teen years doing his homework in, but strangely reminiscent of the exorbitant home he’d had in France during his childhood.

“Would you like some hot cocoa? I think I would like some hot cocoa,” Mr. Washington says, taking a pot down from the cabinets. Gilbert nods, and when he realizes that Mr. Washington’s back is turned and he can’t see him, croaks out a soft ‘yes’. “Hot cocoa on cool rainy nights like this always seems to comfort me.”

It’s the first personal thing the man has said about himself since they’ve met. Gilbert finds it interesting. Mr. Washington didn’t seem like the type to enjoy such childish treats such as hot chocolate. He seemed like a man who liked bitter coffee with no sugars or creamers. Like Gilbert’s father took it.

“Maman used to make me hot cocoa when I couldn’t sleep as a child. It usually put me right to bed, but I always had the aching suspicion she used to add a bit of whiskey,” he offers, because it’s only fair if Mr. Washington has shared a bit of himself. When Mr. Washington turns to look at him, there’s a genuine smile on his face that crinkles the corners of his eyes. It’s surprising, how nice it feels to make the man smile—he doesn’t think he’s actually seen him genuinely smile since they’ve met. “Thank you, Mr. Washington, for your hospitality.”

Mr. Washington’s smile falters just slightly, and he turns back to what he’s doing on the stove. Pulling a jug of milk out of the refrigerator as well as some chocolate, he seems to actively ignore the statement. Gilbert almost begins to think he didn’t hear him with how long it takes for him to respond. But he’s surprised when the man quietly murmurs, “‘Mr. Washington’ is so formal. Call me George, or if you must, Washington.”

“Alright, George,” Gilbert says firmly, rolling the name around on his tongue. It feels comfortable enough, and he gives a small shrug. “Call me Lafayette.”

“Is that not your last name?” Mr. Wash—George questions curiously, turning the heat on the stove up. Gilbert shifts in his seat.

“Yes, but… well, forgive me sir, but you butcher my first name. It’s _‘Jihl-ber’_ , not ‘Gil-bert’,” he corrects, because it’d been nagging at him for awhile. He worries, at first, that he will be on the receiving end of one of George’s cruel glares. But instead, the man tosses his head back and laughs. There’s something boyish about his laugh, something youthful and almost forgiving. It’s a quality that doesn’t seem fitting on such a serious man. Gilbert finds himself chuckling gently along with him.

“Is _that_ why you so visibly winced when I called you by your name? My terrible apologies, darling,” he says with humor still in his voice, the endearment following his words with a practiced ease. Gilbert is unsure of how the moniker makes him feel—he doesn’t cringe or wince like he wants to, but he also can’t find it in himself to blush or shirk away. It’s… _nice_ , actually. Being called darling. It adds a tenderness to the relationship that the two haven’t developed on their own yet.

Washington turns to retrieve two mugs from the cabinet hanging above the island, and settles one down in front of Gilbert before bringing the stove concoction over to the two of them. He fills one mug up with the hot chocolate before filling the other, his movements deliberate and slow. It’s almost hypnotizing watching him pour up the hot chocolate, and Gilbert doesn’t have time to stifle the yawn before it escapes his lips.

“You must be so tired,” George says, putting the now-emptied pot in the sink and grabbing his mug. Lafayette, despite himself, nods his head. He doesn’t know what it is about Washington’s presence that soothes him, but he finds himself tired again—a peaceful tired, that warns of a nice rest. “Come, let’s get you back to bed.”

Despite the urge to stay up and talk more with his _fiance_ —he doubts they’ll have many more candid moments like this—, Gilbert allows himself to be shown back to bed. His eyelids are already drooping, and he knows it’ll be rude to fall asleep on the man while talking. Washington is kind, benevolent even, when he places a hand on the small of his back and directs him towards the winding staircase. It’s a stark contrast from the man he’d seen earlier arguing with Alexander. Gilbert ponders if he will always be that way—a different person at the flip of a switch, a push of a button. He wonders if their relationship will be as hot and cold as Mr. Washington himself seems.

He doesn’t do much wondering, as they come back to his bedroom door much quicker than he would’ve liked. This time, Mr. Washington peels back the covers of his bed as Gilbert changes into a nightshirt and shorts—his pajamas of choice back home—in the adjoining bathroom. The bathroom is just as grand and excessive as the rest of the house seems to be, but Gilbert doesn’t linger to marvel. It’s nothing he hasn’t seen before, anyways.

He allows his hair to remain down—if only because he knows if he puts it back up again it’ll just come out in his sleep—and crawls into bed. He’s surprised to see Washington still waiting for him, mug of cocoa in hand and an awkward look on his face. “Very well, then. Goodnight, Lafayette.”

“Goodnight, George,” Gilbert bids, and Mr. Washington steps out of the room, closing the door behind him with a soft click. When he hears the man's footsteps dissipate before going quiet, Gilbert reaches over and grabs his mug of cocoa.

The liquid is rich and velvety on his tongue. Sweet but not too much so, and the dark chocolate leaves a nostalgic tingling in his heart. But it’s not just the hot chocolate that leaves him smiling as he drifts off to sleep, but the faint sharp taste of whisky cloaked beneath the delicious chocolate.

He wonders when George had managed to do that without him seeing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a chapter shorter than the others but u gotta admit its cute


	4. there's history in these walls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: mentions of assault/violence, mentions of a bad car accident, mentions of drunk driving
> 
> i owe u guys 2 chapters + tomorrow
> 
> i had to potty train my new puppy and then UIL is coming up and my school is hosting and then i went into the hospital so its been a tough two weeks! not to garner sympathy, just like... idk, anyways, hope you enjoy!

A week passes, but to Gilbert, the time goes by in a bit of a daze—he almost doesn’t notice it’s been a week. He spends a lot of his time wandering around the house or the grounds, taking in every bit of his new home—partially to familiarize himself with the house, but mostly because there isn’t much else to do with his time. There’s so many floors and rooms to the mansion that he often fears that he might get lost—but his feet always find the familiar pattern that leads back to his bedroom. His bedroom, which he’d finally begun to personalize by unpacking his belongings and decorating the walls. It’s another time consumer, something to distract him from the fact that he is to be married to a man he rarely sees.

Other days he spends his time with John, Hercules or Alex. He quickly learns that Alexander spends more days than not in Washington’s office, working on whatever it is the two of them do, so they don’t see each other until the evenings. Alexander brings him things from the city to do, like puzzles or books or movies to watch in the entertainment center. Most of it goes untouched, but he appreciates the man’s efforts to make him as comfortable as possible.

John decides he wants to teach him how to care for the house, so he often shadows the older man in the kitchen as they prepare lunch in the afternoons. John seems to tiptoe around the fact that he’s to be married to Washington, hardly ever even mentioning the man unless _absolutely_ necessary. Instead, he focuses on teaching Gilbert how to survive without Washington’s presence around—something he’ll have to adjust to if he’s going to marry him. It’s pointless—with all the money George obviously has, Lafayette will probably never need to attend to house duties a day in his life. There’ll always be maids and butlers to do these things for him. But still, learning is actually kind of fun—John even marvels at how much his makeshift protege enjoys folding.

Hercules is the only one of the three that actually talks about George to him. In the mornings, when Gilbert has gotten dressed, he usually heads down to Hercules’ bedroom functioning as an office. The suite is filled with nice fabrics and plastered with designs for different things—mostly suits, but Gilbert spots a few dress designs out of the corner of his eyes. He lets Hercules dress him up—trying on dresses and suits and any other thing Hercules has to offer while he listens to the man talk about his future husband. It seems that Hercules has known George the longest out of the three men, but he dances around the history they have together—insists it’s not his place to tell.

Lafayette knows there is an unspoken agreement between the three men to not let him recognize the absence of the one person he should be spending his days with. And he appreciates the thoughtfulness they seem to have for his feelings—but it doesn’t change the looming fact that it’s been nearly eight days with Gilbert’s only sign that George still lives there being the sound of him collapsing into bed every night.

Gilbert mostly expects the Monday following his move to be just like any other day he’d spent at the house. He wakes up to the sound of the front door opening and closing, and suspects it’s Washington going off to work as usual. Not quite ready to leave the bed this morning, he rolls over onto his side—his back to the door of his room—and flutters his eyes closed again. He’s sure Hercules won’t mind if he got a late start to the morning.

His drift back into the land of sleep is crudely interrupted however, by the sound of his door flying open and heavy weight collapsing on top of him. Gilbert gives a small cry of surprise at the feeling of a lump across his body, but the weights loud giggling sounds strangely familiar. Blinking sleep from his eyes blearily, he sits up to find Adrienne laying over his lap—her braces shining in her smile, her blue eyes bright.

“ _Wake up, sleepyhead!”_ she exclaims, wrapping her arms tightly around her best friend. Gilbert could cry—he hadn’t known how much he’d missed home, how much he missed her, until he has her in his arms. The two of them embrace tightly, Gilbert burying his nose in the blonde coils atop her head. She still smells of apple cinnamon candles and baby powder, and his eyes prick with tears to think nothing back home had changed with his absence.

_“Adrienne! What are doing here, darling?”_

_“Maman gave me the address to your new home,"_ she explains, pulling away to cup his face between her perfectly manicured hands. There’s a look of distress in her blue eyes, and Gilbert leans into her touch. A familiar closeness that he’d been missing. “ _I can’t believe you got married off! I never expected you of all people…”_

 _“Yes, well, I did. It’s done,”_ he snaps, and Adrienne flinches. Gilbert immediately feels guilty, recoiling slightly from his best friend. There’s no way she could understand—she had never even had to worry about being arranged to marry, let alone experience it. But he can tell she wants to understand, she wants to help him. It’s unfair of him to take out his frustrations—with George, with the wedding, with his parents—on her, who had done nothing but try to comfort him. _“I’m sorry. I’m just tired of sympathy, darling.”_

She nods like she understands, and coils a strand of his hair around her finger. _“What’s he like? Is he mean? Is he attractive? Has he forced you to…”_

The question hangs in the air, and Gilbert could break his neck with how vehemently he shakes his head. He doesn’t think Washington is the type of person, even if he had been around more often, to do something of that nature. It hadn’t even crossed his mind.

 _“No, no, he would never. Or rather, I don’t think he would. I don’t know. I haven’t seen him in a week,”_ he confesses, and as expected, Adrienne tuts her tongue and shakes her head in disapproval. In George’s defense, however, Adrienne never approved of anyone her best friend dated—she didn’t think any boy was good enough for her Gilbert. And likewise, he never approved of the string of men and women she brought to her sheets either—he would say her _spouses_ , but Adrienne didn’t believe in dating. It was the protective nature of each other that had been a standard since their childhood.

 _“What a scoundrel,”_ she hisses, venom dripping from her words. Usually, her insulting one of his lovers would make him laugh and bat at her playfully—mostly because he knew he had an affinity for the bad boys—, but for some reason, a protective fire flares in his chest. Mr. Washington was never around, but the one time he had been, he’d been very kind to him. He wasn’t a scoundrel—he wasn’t a bad man at all. And Gilbert didn’t want Adrienne to get the impression that he was. However, there’s no time to defend his fiance’s name—as Adrienne has already jumped to her feet, sifting through his drawers for an outfit. Never one to linger on any one topic, she’s already moved on. _“Go shower, and we can go get breakfast. I don’t know what was cooking in that kitchen, but it smelled delicious. I’ve only had an iced coffee this morning.”_

Doing as told, Gilbert climbs from the sheets and makes his way to the shower. He had only figured out how to work the many knobs on the shower recently—the nicer showers at his house had been in his parents bedroom and the guest bedroom, whereas his had been quite simple. It took a few freezing cold ice baths and one burning shower that had left his skin red and irritated for him to figure out a nice temperature, but now his fingers flick the switches and turn the knobs with practiced ease.

It’s a telltale sign that he’s adjusting to life at Mr. Washington’s house, and he doesn’t know if that’s a good or bad thing.

When he finally exits the shower, hair dripping wet and feeling refreshed, Adrienne has laid out an outfit and disappeared. A pair of tight black jeans that she liked to say made his ass look good—only Adrienne cared about such things, Gilbert only ever really thought about it when he had a boyfriend—and a soft white button-up shirt. He hurries in dressing, as Adrienne is nowhere to be found and she tended to get into trouble if left unsupervised, and tugs on his favorite black boots before going downstairs.

He finds Adrienne in the kitchen, flirting with John—who seems to entertain her enough to not be rude, but consistently reject her advances. Leave it to his best friend to flirt with the first good-looking man she comes across in his new home. Flicking her ear when he settles down into the bar stool beside her, he shoots her a warning glare before turning apologetically to John.

“Forgive my dear Adri, it seems as if her manners have escaped her,” he says, his voice pointed in the direction of the girl beside him despite his words speaking to his new friend. John gives a shrug that says he doesn’t mind and turns to fix plates for the two of them. With his back turned, Gilbert pinches her side slightly. _“What are you doing?!”_

 _“What? You get to be engaged to some fabulously rich handsome guy, or whatever. I can’t fish?”_ she retorts, eyeing John’s behind through his own jeans. Gilbert pinches her again in annoyance. _“Ow! Stop that!”_

 _“My engagement is not by choice, darling. And John is my friend,”_ he lectures, which earns him an adorable pout and a pair of batting eyelashes. Unfortunately, Adrienne seems to have forgotten that the look worked on every man on Earth except for him—the one person that knew there was a deviousness behind that face that had to be looked out for. _“Don’t tell me you came here to see if my fiance has a catch of a brother?”_

_“And if I did?”_

_“You are terrible, you know this?”_ This time Adrienne grins again, showing off her braces and twisting around on her chair. For some reason, she seemed to think they were the cutest feature about her, and liked to show them to anyone who would look at her. When John turns back around with their food, she flashes him a goofy smile.

“Does your friend know I’m gay?” he asks, settling the plates down in front of the two of them. Adrienne’s face falls comically, her brace-faced grin turning into a pouty frown. Now it’s Gilbert’s turn to grin childishly. He had suspected this fact of John, but had never outright asked him—felt it would be rude to force the man to tell him if he wasn’t ready. It feels triumphant to have his suspicions confirmed in a way that takes all of the cocky air out of his best friend.

“Now she does,” Gilbert says, cutting into his pancakes. Adrienne wrinkles her nose.

“All the good ones are, _non_?” John and Gilbert exchange a look that says ‘not necessarily’, but neither say it aloud. Most of the breakfast is spent with Adrienne filling him in on what they’d been studying in classes—their schedules were similar, as they were both studying sociology—and Gilbert, in turn, telling her about what it was like in his new house. She has significantly more to talk about than he does, though, so he lets her do most of the conversation navigating. It’s not until they’re putting their plates in the sink that she glances nervously at John and falls completely silent—waiting for them to get outside before she finally speaks again.

 _“Everyone is saying Michel sold you off to some old perv who takes advantage of you every night,”_ she says in hushed tones—despite the both of them knowing fluent French speakers are a rare find in America. Both of Gilbert’s eyebrows shoot up in surprise at the confession—it couldn’t be further from the truth. George didn’t even _see_ him every night, let alone force him to bed. _“Or that he sent you away to France because you’re gay, or that you ran off with a lover. Someone even told me they think you’re dead. No one even knows what happened to you, you just fell off the face of the Earth. The only people that even know where you are, are me, Maman and Michel.”_

 _“Really? Why have they told no one?”_ Gilbert wonders aloud, if only just to bounce ideas off of Adrienne. _“It doesn’t make sense. George is affluent, powerful… why wouldn’t they announce my engagement to him? They should be tripping over themselves to announce who they’ve managed to secure for their son.”_

 _“Maybe it has something to do with how your Mom feels about these arranged marriages—maybe they’re trying to keep it hush hush that it’s arranged._ Or _, maybe it has something to do with what I found,”_ Adrienne says, reaching into a purse she has slung over her shoulder. She brandishes a bunch of old newspaper clippings—noticeably dated and yellowed, but still telligible. She hands him the pieces of paper and Gilbert takes it—hungrily drinking in the answers.

 **GEORGE WASHINGTON, CEO OF CONTINENTAL ENTERPRISES, LOSES ENTIRE FAMILY IN BRUTAL CAR ACCIDENT  
** **DRUNK PERSONAL DRIVER KILLS WIFE, AND TWO CHILDREN OF INFLUENTIAL BUSINESSMAN  
** **GEORGE WASHINGTON SUES DRIVING COMPANY FOR 2.5M IN DAMAGES, WINS HUGE SETTLEMENT**  

 _“When was this?”_ Gilbert asks, gripping the papers tightly. The knowledge is shocking, to say the least. He hadn’t even known that George had been married before, let alone lost his entire family in a tragedy. It reveals just how little he actually knows about this strange man that he is set to marry. But ever the empath, he does immediately feel terrible sorrow for the man. How horrible it must’ve been to lose his family in the blink of an eye, one fell swoop. Gilbert couldn’t even begin to imagine losing both of his parents at once—it would do more than devastate him, it would _destroy_ him. And though it explains why George himself chose to drive instead of hiring a personal driver, it still doesn’t explain why his family is hiding his marriage. _“And what does it have to do with telling people that I’m to marry him?”_

 _“Ten years ago. Doesn’t it seem fishy? That the guy doesn’t tell you about this terrible thing that happened to him, and now your parents are hiding that you’re engaged? Maybe it doesn’t connect… but maybe it does,”_ she points out, a suspicious tensity to her voice. Adrienne had always done a good job at getting her best friend worked up—pointing out shadows where there were none. By now he should be well-prepared against her poking, but he still worries his bottom lip with nervousness. Yes, she could be messing with him. But if what she was saying is true, then why? Why hadn’t Washington told him any of this? And why weren’t his parents announcing the engagement?

 _“Maybe he wants to keep it out of the tabloids because he doesn’t want his past to get flung back into the spotlight. That makes sense, doesn’t it?”_ Lafayette explains away, biting the edges of his nails with anxiety—a habit that he’d begun to pick up from Alexander. Adrienne slaps his hand away from his mouth and grips his shoulders, blue eyes searching his. _“What?”_

 _“What if he killed them? What if there’s still an ongoing investigation? And you’re next?”_ she asks, her voice somber and shaking slightly with fear. Lafayette blinks at her, surprise and terror obviously written on his face. The two of them stand in the gardens of his new home for what feels like eternity, staring at each other and allowing their minds to race. But then Adrienne busts out into that goofy smile of hers and he realizes he’s been strung along again. _“I’m kidding! You should’ve seen the look on your face! Really, that imagination of yours will get you in trouble. He just met you, Laf, I wouldn’t have told you either. Don’t worry about it.”_

Lafayette slaps her harm harshly, hating how she always did that to him. _“That isn’t funny! This is still my future husband we’re talking about!"_

 _“I’m sorry, I just_ had _to make sure I could still do it!”_ she exclaims with a fit of laughter, collapsing into a chair beneath a orange tree. They’re not far away from the back porch, but far enough away that no one is around or paying them any mind. Gilbert is still scowling—his blood beginning to boil under his skin. Adrienne had a sick, horrible sense of humor—and he thought he’d adjusted to it. But still, to say all those awful things about a man she had never even met… it’s cruel. Even worse, she played on the fears she knew he had about the marriage and his future with the man. _“Your father told everyone about your engagement, are you kidding me! Could you imagine Michel holding a secret like that? I think he’d explode! He couldn’t keep it in. ‘Look at my son! Marrying such a powerful man!’ God, it was horrible.”_

 _“Are these even real?”_ he whines, smoothing the news clippings out over his lap. Adrienne nods her head, becoming actually serious for once—he can see in her rigid posture that this is something she’s not lying about. Which saddens him even more—why would she joke about such an awful thing that had happened to such a good man?

 _“Those are real. I actually did do my research on this guy. I searched to see if he had a history of violence, domestic or otherwise. But that was really the only thing that popped up. That, and he was listed as valedictorian of his high school class,”_ she shrugs. _“I’m sorry. I’m sure he’s a great guy, and his family was super nice or whatever. But I couldn’t resist the opportunity to mess with you.”_

 _“You are an incredible asshole,”_ he snaps angrily, folding the bits of newspaper up and putting them back in her purse. Adrienne opens her mouth to say something—probably apologize, or try to charm her way out of trouble with him—, but her jaw goes slack and her eyes zero in on something behind him. When Gilbert turns to see what she’s looking at—thinking she’s still messing with him—his own eyes widen to find George Washington approaching the two of them. He’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt that accentuates how big his arms are, and black sweatpants—it’s the most casual that Gilbert has ever seen him. Which, isn’t saying much considering he’s only seen Washington twice since coming to stay with him.

 _“_ That’s _him? I take back everything I said,”_ Adrienne says salaciously, her eyes quite obviously checking the older man out. Gilbert swats at her again, ignores the strange pang of jealousy that tightens his jaw. It’s probably not jealousy, he’s probably just angry with her for that horrible thing she just did. _I hope._

 _“Shut up._ George, hello!” he greets, when the man has approached where they’re seated.

“Hello, Lafayette. Who is this?” Washington asks tersely, though politely. Immediately, Gilbert picks up that something is off about him. There’s something tightening his shoulders, making the intensity that usually surrounded him stronger and more noticeable.

Adrienne must not notice though, because she extends her hand, shaking the older man’s hand with a little bit more than courteousness—ignoring how visibly uncomfortable he seems. Gilbert resists the urge to roll his eyes at her flirty nature.

“Adrienne de Noailles. Pleasure to meet you.” George shakes her hand and drops it limply, offering no more than that. It’s obvious he’s come here on a mission, and it’s not for small talk. Gilbert’s gut begins the familiar dance it’s learned of tying itself into painful knots that make his stomach hurt. He remains composed, however.

“And you. Lafayette, I just got off of the phone with your father, Michel. We have… we have established a date for the wedding,” he explains slowly, gauging the young man’s reaction. Gilbert sits up straighter in his seat, forgetting Adrienne’s cruel jokes and flirtiness—the man’s next words determined how quickly he would go from Gilbert de Lafayette to Gilbert Washington. The knots in his tummy tighten. “It’ll be July the sixteenth.”

 _July 16th._ Doing quick math in his head,  he reasons that the day is only three months from now. In three short months, he’d be walking down the aisle to what was—currently—a complete stranger. Thus, he had three months to turn the mysterious enigma that was George Washington from a stranger into someone he could spend the rest of his future with.

Exhaling, he nods his head. Very well. He’d never backed down from a challenge before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> in short, George has a Tragic Backstory™ Adrienne is a Horrible Douche™ and Gilbert is Gullible™
> 
> also Adrienne calls Gil's Mother her mother too


	5. réconforter un ami.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter might be a little shorter than usual my apologies

**_twelve weeks before the wedding_ **

 “Sit _still_ , Lafayette, I beg of you,” Hercules exasperated voice says, from where he’s seated at the feet of his new friend. His words are slightly muffled because of the pins he holds pressed between his lips, which allows Gilbert to pretend he can’t understand him and allows himself to fidget just a little bit more on the pedestal. Hercules gives another annoyed sigh and pulls the measuring tape away from the young man’s thighs, questioning in his dark eyes. “What’s gotten into you?”

Gilbert worries his bottom between his teeth, nibbling at the soft flesh and trying his best to come up with a good excuse. The truth is that he’s extremely worried about the wedding. Washington had spread the news of the engagement date through the household rather quickly—or rather, he had told Alexander and Alexander had been unable to help himself from telling everyone with an ear to listen—and now it had begun to settle in beneath his skin. There was an actual _date_ for his marriage—in three months his identity would be altered, and he’d be married to a man that he _still_ barely knew.

“Is this because of your wedding?” Hercules asks, his words gentler. He must’ve read the younger man’s expression—as he was becoming so adept at doing—and picked up on the anxiety.

Gilbert nods his head, feels tears begin to spring up in his eyes before he can stop them. He steps down off the pedestal to sit on it, and buries his face in his hands—trying his best to hide just how broken he truly is becoming. Small sobs work their way up through his chest, shaking his frame until he’s near hysterics. It feels ridiculous—horrifyingly reminiscent of his mother’s inability to grasp hold of her own emotions. A marriage is such a trivial thing to be upset over—arranged or not. Gilbert knows that there are plenty of people that fall in love with their betrothed after their marriage, and that he wasn’t exactly doomed to have a loveless, drab coupling—similar to the one his parents had developed.

Still… he’s terribly young. He still has his entire future ahead of him, but he’s found himself unsure of what it holds. And the idea terrifies him.

Hercules wraps his arms around Gilbert’s crying figure and brings him to his chest, rubbing his back in an attempt to calm him. It’s obvious he’s ill-equipped to deal with this, but he does his best anyways. “Hey, hey, everything is going to be alright. You don’t need to cry.”

“I don’t know anything about him, Hercules,” Gilbert manages out, his words wet with his tears. He pulls away from the embrace to look at his friend, and notices when Hercules visibly cringes at his sadness. “I’ve seen him twice the entire time I’ve been here! He’s supposed to be my husband, but I don’t even know his favorite color! How am I supposed to have a happy marriage if I never see the man in the first place?”

“This is important to you? Having a happy marriage?” Hercules asks, almost in disbelief. Most people arranged in marriages’ priority was to survive—to cope with whatever cards they were dealt, get through everyday without giving up. Too often, Hercules had seen people lose hope of any potential for happiness simply because they were wed to someone they didn’t personally choose. His parents had, for most of his years, been his only example of a happy matrimony under the pretenses of being arranged—he thought that people didn’t care about having good, happy lives with their significant others. It surprises him to see that Gilbert isn’t necessarily upset at being forced to marry someone he didn’t choose, but at the prospect he’d be trapped in a miserable marriage.

Gilbert practically gapes at the question. “Could you imagine the _alternative_? Spending the rest of my days miserable and lonely? I refuse to accept that as a future. No, I want to come to love him. I want to have a happy life with him.”

Deliberating for a moment, Hercules realizes what he must do to help his friend. Rising to his feet, he steps over where Gilbert is sitting and heads to his work closet. He hadn’t been going to tell Gilbert about this until later on in the evening, but it’s obvious the kid needs some serious cheering up. If he was feeling this hopeless about his relationship with Washington, Hercules was going to do everything in his power to resolve it—especially if it meant that he stopped crying and stressing himself out. Besides, he’d grown to like having Gilbert’s presence around—he was funny, and interesting, and filled his days with a deviation from the monotonous patterns he’d begun to fall into. Plus, he allowed Hercules to use him as a model for some of his more ambitious designs. It’s only fair that he return the favor of helping him. If not as George’s friend, then as Gilbert’s.

Pulling a hanger out of the closet, he turns and shows the outfit hanging on it off to Lafayette. It’s painstakingly hand-tailored mandarin-collar suit done in expensive, silk forest green and dark gray fabrics. He thinks the colors and design compliment Gilbert’s hazel eyes and tall, lithe frame well, which is why he produces it. Hercules himself had made it for fun ages before he met Lafayette, but Washington had asked him to find something special for that evening for Gilbert to wear. He’d been working on tailoring it to fit the young man, and he thinks it might be one of his proudest works.

“What’s this?” Gilbert asks, rising to touch the soft fabric. His fingertips dance over the collar, down to the sleeve—his touch light, almost as if he’s afraid of ruining it. “It’s beautiful.”

“Ah, thanks. I made it, and you’re going to wear it tonight,” Hercules says, handing the hanger over. Almost a childlike confusion paints Lafayette’s tear-streaked face as he takes it, his brow furrowing and his lips turning down just slightly. “It was _supposed_ to be a surprise, but George wants to take you on a date.”

“A… date?” Gilbert asks slowly, as if he’s unsure how the words feel in his mouth. He brightens a little, which is a step up from the sobbing he’d been doing moments ago. “A date with Mr. Washington?”

“A date with your _fiance_ ,” Hercules corrects, and Lafayette actually gives an airy laugh. “Alexander may or may not have let it spill that you voiced some concerns about never seeing him. He was going to surprise you, as I said, but I think right now you’re in desperate need of some good news.”

Lafayette admires the outfit again, turning the hanger around in his fingers before lifting his gaze up to Hercules. This time, though his eyes appear watery, there’s a shining smile on his lips. It’s obvious that tears are of joy and not sadness, and Hercules gives him a toothy grin back. “Thank you so much, Hercules. You’re a good friend.”

Hercules shrugs his shoulders, his boyish grin still on his lips, and gestures back towards the pedestal. Even despite the upcoming date, he still needs to get started on Gilbert’s wedding suit. Afterall, twelve weeks wasn’t a lot of time to make two different suits with two largely varying body types. “Now will you relax?”

Gilbert nods his head, apologizing before stepping back onto the pedestal. He’s less antsy than he had been before, but still Hercules can tell that a different type of nerves has settled beneath his skin. As he wraps the measuring tape around Lafayette’s waist, the younger man’s fingers begin to drum against his thigh and Hercules has to still his hands to stop him from moving long enough to get a measurement.

“He’s going to like you, too, Laf. He wouldn’t have signed the contract if there wasn’t some attraction to you at some level,” he assures, scribbling down the information on a writing pad. He’d only known Gilbert for the sum of a week, but Hercules had always been particularly adept at picking up on people’s habits as they associated with their moods. He had known that Alexander drank more coffee when there was an important business deal on the line, or that John baked more sweets when he was stressed over his home life. He picked up on the ticks of people, especially if he cared for them—and he was beginning to greatly care for Gilbert.

“But is he just attracted to a pretty face… or is he willing to see me as more of a person?” Gilbert points out, raising his arms so that they’re out of Hercules’ way. He shrugs, bringing the measuring tape up to his chest.

“Physical attraction is the beginning, emotional attraction will follow.”

Gilbert begins to nibble on his lip again, mind racing with what felt like a million thoughts a minute. His eyes dart to the outfit, now laying across Hercules’ bed—almost as if it’s ominously teasing him.

 _J'espère que tu as raison, mon ami._  

* * *

 

 **Translations**  


**_J'espère que tu as raison, mon ami._ ** — I hope you’re right, my friend.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no hercules isn’t flirting with lafayette they’re just Good Bros™


	6. date night.

Gilbert sits on his nerves for the rest of the day, having nothing better to do than linger on the prospect of his _first_ date with his fiance. He aimlessly wanders around the large mansion the moment Hercules turns him loose, trying an assortment of things to fill his time with—even manages to cajole John into taking time away from his duties to play board games with him. But no matter how hard he tries to send his mind elsewhere, his focus always finds its way back to Washington, and their impending date. He wonders where they’ll go, what they’ll do… and what Mr. Washington will expect of him at the end of the night.

If he were to be realistic, he would doubt very seriously that Washington will want any favors for the outing, but he had heard all the horror stories from friends growing up. Of husbands and wives expecting to be _serviced_ in exchange for lavish presents and expensive nights out. George didn’t seem like the type, but still, Lafayette has always had a dangerously active imagination.

By the time six o’clock rolls around—which is usually the time that Mr. Washington gets home from his work—Gilbert is practically a bundle of nerves. His own mind had plagued him for the majority of the day, so he can barely wait another second to find out what’s in store for the evening. He’s just finished nervously unbuttoning and redoing the buttons on his shirt, smoothing the fabric out over his skin, when he hears the front door open and Washington’s voice fills the halls.

“Yes, well… no, no, Adams, I understand _perfectly clearly_ but I’m not backing down on this deal.” Washington is having a seemingly heated conversation on the phone when Gilbert flies down the stairs and rounds the landing, so he at first doesn’t notice the young man watching and waiting for him patiently. But then Alexander, who trails dutifully behind his boss and notices the young man first, clears his throat and Washington lifts his gaze.

His dark eyes trail over the entirety Gilbert’s shape, something intense and electric in his stare as he does. The younger man had taken special care in making sure he did Hercules’ suit justice, and had spent nearly an hour on his hair alone. He’d pulled his cedar colored locks back into a glimmering black clip in a way that frames his face with an almost attractive innocence, and accessorized with a silver necklace and a matching silver rolex his father had gifted him on his eighteenth birthday. He’d even taken great care with his shoes, shining them himself.

Whatever he did, he must’ve done a good job because Washington’s tongue darts out to wet his lips, his stare becoming almost hungry. Lafayette’s face flushes and he glances down at the tips of his toes as the man hurriedly hangs up the phone on whoever he was talking to.

“You look very handsome,” Washington compliments kindly after several moments of silence, just a twinge of awkwardness in his tone. When Gilbert looks back up, the businessman has regained his composure, but there’s still something dark in his eyes and a faint blush on his cheeks. “Hamilton, handle this business with Adams, yes?”

Alexander nods his head obediently, taking Washington’s suitcase from his fingers and giving a teasing wink to Lafayette before virtually disappearing. The two of them listen for the telltale stomping of Alex as he goes up the stairs—he had apparently never learned how to walk without using his full force in his steps—and then, the light clicking that indicates he’s gone to bury himself in his work.

Now alone with his future husband for the first time since he’d come to live with the man, Gilbert doesn’t know what to do with himself. He hadn’t given much thought to how he would act around George—had been too caught up in the hypotheticals of what they would do. He’d almost managed to forget that his fiance is still a stranger to him, that the two of them haven’t had a conversation longer than a few sentences since they’d met.

Luckily, the older man makes the first move. He extends his hand to Gilbert, lacing their fingers together when the young man takes it. His hands are slightly rough, almost as if he’d be out toiling in a farm all day instead of sitting in boring offices making deals with executives. But its a nice feeling, a small yet affirming act of affection. Something Lafayette is afraid he’d been missing in his days at the large manor. Without his Maman to look after or Adrienne there to spend his days with, he’d become starved for those small bits of touch. He had company—John and Alex and Hercules were all lovely people—but they couldn’t exactly provide the adequate amount of affectionate that had been absent for.

Washington doesn’t let go of Lafayette’s hand as the two of them step out of the house into the warm evening air. The sun is setting now, casting fiery golden shadows on the lawn as it filters through the trees surrounding the estate. Glowing light falls upon Washington’s features, deaging him by some twenty years. Gilbert wonders what he was like when he was his age—nineteen, his future sprawling and grand before him. He doesn’t ask.

In fact, neither of them say anything until the two of them are in the car and pulling out of the large black gates that guarded Washington’s land. They’ve got quite a drive in front of them before they get to the city, and instead of letting the tension between them settle like he had on that first day, Lafayette resolves himself to hold a conversation. If they couldn’t fall in love, they could at least have an amicable relationship.

Washington beats him to the punch, though. “I see Alexander let slip my little surprise.”

“Hercules, actually,” Gilbert says, earning a laugh from the lips of the older man. He chuckles lightly himself, adding, “Is it often that your charges interfere with your plans? I mean, at home, if someone working under my father had ruined a plan for surprise like this, he’d strike them. But I notice you are not a man of similar standing.”

George shrugs his shoulders, glancing to Lafayette out of the corner of his eye. “Yes, well, Hercules has been working under me since he was a young boy, I couldn’t bear to harm him. Besides, he often knows how to act in my better interest long before I do. I have learned to accept it when he does something without consulting me first—it usually goes much better than what I would’ve done. As for Hamilton and Laurens…”

Washington noticeably trails off, his brow furrowed just slightly. When he speaks again, his tone is heavy with something—maybe admiration, maybe something solemn. Lafayette has come to find that the range of his future husband’s emotions are an enigma, yet to be fully interpreted. “Hamilton came to me when he was a bit younger than your age—youthful, tenacious, longing to rise above his station. As you may have seen, he is… energetic, to say the least. I can hardly blame him for his ambition, which is why I am more than lenient with him. And Laurens is a good young man, his heart is always in the right place. He’s only working as my cook temporarily, while his father resolves the turmoil that is clouding his own arrangement.”

This news comes as a surprise to Lafayette. He hadn’t known that John, too, was facing an arranged marriage. It would help to explain how he skirting around talking about his marriage to Washington—maybe thinking about the fresh-faced young boy come to live with his betrothed reminded him too much of his own engagement. He makes a mental note to ask the man about it when they return to the manor.

“How did you meet them? The boys?” he asks, tiptoeing into the conversation. Washington opens and closes his mouth several times, as if the story is stuck on the tip of his tongue but he’s forgotten it. After a few moments of silence, he goes into a tale of the young Alexander Hamilton—a star pupil with an electricity that Washington had needed to compliment the calm reservedness he lived his life portraying.

As George speaks, Gilbert listens—thirstily drinking in the information about this closed-off man, reveling in these few moments of warmth and openness offered to him by his fiance. It feels like the most he’s ever seen Washington speak and the most virile he’s ever seen the man be. Maybe Lafayette’s people-reading skills are worn and underused, but it feels almost as if there’s that same electricity that Hamilton possessed thrumming just beneath the surface of Washington’s cool exterior—longing to be let out, to allow this man to be properly unraveled and reveal who is outside of the icy, detached persona he puts on.

When George finishes his story by telling a tale of Alexander publicly challenging the owner of Washington’s rival company to a formal duel through a slanderous excerpt in the newspaper, Gilbert laughs again. He can almost picture it. Alexander, younger and even more electric, needing someone to cool those flames that seemed to lick at his heels.

He doesn’t even realize they’ve arrived at their destination until Washington turns the engine of the car off and opens his door. Leaning forward in his seat, Gilbert reads the sign of the restaurant and registers the name almost immediately. He’d been to this place before—his father had once joked it was the only decent place in America to get legitimate French cuisine—in his early teen years. It had been one of the last times his mother had left the house before she’d been virtually bedridden with her illness. The small family had been happily celebrating his parents’ sixteenth wedding anniversary which also fell on Gilbert’s birthday in September. He remembers how happy his parents had been on that night—they’d actually _kissed,_ which by then, had been an uncommon occurrence. It was only six years ago, but it felt like an eternity ago. Now, when he thought of his parents’ relationship, he thought of two people who had forgotten how to love each other.

He’s jostled out of his memories by Washington opening his door for him, taking his hand to help him step out. He hands the car keys to a valet sitting outside by a podium and rests his hand on the small of Lafayette’s back in a way that is oddly comforting.

Inside the restaurant, Washington barely has to part his lips to say his name before a pretty young waitress is guiding them towards the back of the dining areas to a booth with ‘RESERVED’ golden placards on the table. It feels a little excessive, but had grown up with an unyielding amount of extravagance. Its nothing he hadn’t had nineteen years to adjust to.

Sitting in the booth across from his fiance, Lafayette dutifully accepts the menu from the waitress and flips it open whilst Washington orders what sounds like a type of wine. Most of the words are in French and lacking English subtitles—some dishes, if said in English, wouldn’t translate well—and judging by Washington’s face, he is just as miserable at the language as Michel de Lafayette had said he is.

Gilbert watches the man with amusement written on his expression for a few moments, watches the slight panic in his eyes as he scans the menu for something, _anything_ that could hint to what he was reading. Then, after several long minutes of watching him flounder, Lafayette smiles. The sentiment behind his sudden realization is almost too sweet for him to bear, and he almost _pities_ the man. George Washington had never even been to this restaurant before, and thus had no idea how to order in French.

“Alexander referred the restaurant to you? You have never been here before?” Washington winces, lowering his menu down onto the table.

“Was I that obvious?”

“ _Oui. Laisse moi aider,”_ he says, leaning across the table to show the different items to the man. His finger points to the first thing on the menu, eyes darting to George every so often as he speaks. “This is like… well, it is similar to a beef stew, but it is cooked with wine. And this is—”

“Just order what you think I might like best,” Washington cuts him off, already looking exasperated at the idea of going down the seemingly endless list of dishes. Gilbert nods his head, folding the man’s menu and setting it neatly down on the table.

“Well, yes, I _would_. But I don’t believe I know enough about you to know what you might like.”

 _There it is._ With the words laid out on the table so blatantly like this, Gilbert finds that he isn’t sure what to say or even, _do_ next. He’d been holding this truth behind the gates of his teeth because, so far, they’d been having a lovely night out. He hadn’t wanted to dampen the jovial mood with the truth on how he felt about the man’s noticeable absence, but the words slip off of his tongue before he can catch them.

He stares down at his hands at the same time Washington sucks in air through his teeth. The waitress returns now with the bottle of wine, and hurriedly pours the each of them a glass before leaving the bottle and vanishing once again—murmuring something about coming back to take their order. Lafayette wonders if she could feel the palpable tension, too. Wonders if the discomfort that has now settled over their conversation is obvious to everyone around them.

His mouth suddenly feeling dry, Gilbert reaches for his glass and takes a tentative sip of the wine. Immediately, he takes note of the sweetness that accompanies the liquid—how his teeth recoil at the sugary taste. But after a moment, the accompanying fruity flavor with a slight undertone of honey settles like a blanket over his tongue

“Muscat Beaumes-de-Venise,” Washington says when he speaks again, tongue tripping over the French pronunciation. He’s eyeing the young man over his glass in a way that makes Gilbert’s cheeks flush. Or maybe that’s the wine. “I imagined you’d like it.”

Lafayette nods his head, taking another sip.

“Lafayette, I think… I think I need to apologize to you. I’m afraid I’ve left you with the impression that I don’t want to be around you, and I want to be straightforward with you when I say that is not the case,” he begins slowly.

“I must admit, I was feeling a bit despaired at all of the time you spend away. I was concerned we would never get the chance to form any sort of bond,” Gilbert confesses, wringing his hands in his lap. Despite his reserved upbringing, he had never been the type to hide how he was feeling from people—unless there were particularly extenuating circumstances, such as coming home from school to find he’d been married off to a rich, mysterious stranger. His father had lectured him frequently about being so candid, wearing his heart on his sleeve. His mother would always hush his father when he said those things, assuring Gilbert she’d rather he wear his heart on his sleeve than the alternative route of dangerously bottle everything up like his father.

“Well, I hope to assuage your fears tonight,” Washington says, reaching across the table to give his hand a gentle squeeze. He stares at Lafayette with a strange look in his dark eyes, the expression accompanied with a sigh. “I have realized, much too late, that I was attempting to escape the guilt accompanying this betrothal by avoiding you. But I did not take into account your feelings on the matter until Alexander brought forth to my attention your anguish.”

“I understand now that if we are to be wed, in no less than three months at that, then I must swallow my pride and divide my attention so that you may come to know me, and I may come to know you. Does that sound good?”

Relief washes over Gilbert, a tension he hadn’t known he was holding evaporating from the muscles in his shoulders. He relaxes against the his seat in the booth, his head nodding in affirmation. “It is certainly a step up to the arrangement we have now.”

“Very well. Tell me about yourself, then.” At a rather bad moment, he is reminded of his very first conversation with Alexander—where he’d bitterly snapped that Washington should be the one making an effort to get to know him, and Alexander had mentioned something about taking on the tasks ‘George didn’t want to do’. He ponders if Washington genuinely wants to know him now, or he’s putting up a front because it’s simply what is being expected of him.

There is no way to answer this question, so Lafayette says, “I was born on the Chavaniac-Lafayette estate in France. And I spent twelve years leaving there before my Father moved us here for business reasons. It’s why my accent isn’t as thick as my parents’.”

“Your father… he is an… enterprising businessman, is he not?”

Gilbert laughs at this. Michel de Lafayette, _enterprising_? That was hardly the world most people that knew him closely would use to describe him. “My father is aggressive when it comes to getting what he wants. You can say it, I will take no offense.”

“Ah, well, yes. He seemed eager to marry you off. I couldn’t imagine being so ready to marry off my only son. And to someone with such a significant age difference, no less.”

Taking another of sip of wine, Lafayette gives a small shrug. He isn’t exactly surprised to hear that his father had been the lead in all of the negotiations for his marriage agreement. He was a good father, Michel de Lafayette, and he loved his son. But there is no doubt in Gilbert’s heart that he loves his money and connections far more, and will do _anything_ to secure either. If it meant marrying off his only child? Then so be it.

Though, curiosity does plague him. He knew the reason why his father had accepted the contract for marriage, but didn’t know why Washington had done the same. Looking up at the man, he leans forward and asks, “What made you decide to go forth with your engagement to me? Before even meeting me, no less. I could’ve very well been self-righteous or stuck-up or a brat. Anything.”

“You could still be,” George jokes, which earns him a light kick beneath the table and weasels a chuckle out of the man. “Alexander did the majority of the negotiations. He showed me pictures of eligible bachelors in New York and I chose you.”

“But… why me?” he prods, needing to know why exactly _he_ had been the subject of Washington’s attention. Why he had been the one person that the man had laid his eyes upon and decided to be with forever? The person that had to leave behind the life he knew and the people he loved to live in a house without warmth and a marriage based off of nothing but his Father’s yearning for money and affluent associates.

His question goes unanswered though, because the waitress returns to their table then.  “Are you two ready to order?”

“Yes, thank you,” Washington says, handing her the menus and gesturing for Lafayette to place their orders. Gilbert sits back in the booth again, aware that his question will most likely go unanswered. He orders quickly, speaking in rapid fire French that the waitress obviously struggles to keep up with. He wonders how they could have a waitress so poorly at French waiting at an authentic French restaurant, but doesn’t linger on the thought. She confirms their order once more before scurrying away—as if she’s trying to run away from the both of them.

Washington chuckles. “I believe you intimidated the poor girl. I doubt she ever expected an actual native of your country to be dining in a New York restaurant.”

“Ah, well, your country has a habit of glorifying French culture before you learn about us. Must be an American thing,” Gilbert says, before he can bite his tongue. Washington’s eyes darken slightly, and he reaches for his glass of wine. Gilbert wants to apologize, wants to try and clean up his obvious mishap.

But for some reason, he can’t find the cognition within in him to do so.

* * *

 

Translations

**_Oui. Laisse moi aider._ ** — Yes. Let me help.


	7. maman & nounou

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i, admittedly, don’t really know anyone with manic depression nor do i have it myself. but, i am doing my best to portray the severity of Louise’s mental illness as realistically and truthfully as I can. please, please, please if i do or say anything about her that is untrue to reality, let me know
> 
> Also, there’s a tiny bit of classism coming from Laf/his father in this chapter. Its early on, but just a heads up

The morning following the date—which manages to go off without much fuss after Gilbert’s outburst—Alexander wakes him up early in the morning with an offer to drive him into to the city for the day.

 Though, he _says_ it’s because Alexander will be in New York all day for a conference with Washington, and he knows that Lafayette was developing a bit of cabin fever from being cooped up for so long, Lafayette suspects its _really_ owing to the fact that Washington didn’t want him to think he was reneging on his deal so quickly by spending the entire day in the city. Besides, Alexander’s offer to take him anywhere is far more tantalizing than calling out his future husband on his barely masqueraded excuses.

Gilbert is dressed and ready by the time Alexander has come back to his room to fetch him, and the two of them quickly grab blueberry muffins from John—who scolds the both of them on even _attempting_ to miss breakfast—before departing from the house. Early morning has begun to rise over the trees surrounding the large manor, the sun peeking out from between gray clouds against a backdrop of gloom. He can smell the rain before it lands against his skin, and the two hurry to get in Hamilton’s car before their muffins start to become soggy.

Driving with Alexander, Gilbert finds, is much different from driving with Washington. The second they’re both safely strapped in with their seatbelts, Hamilton turns on the radio to a station that plays loud, screaming rock music. The sound absolutely blankets the sleek black sports car that belongs to Hamilton, causing the vehicle to shake a little from the blaring music. Alexander doesn’t turn it down either, until they’ve pulled out of the gates and the signs that mark the miles until they reach the city begin to pop up on the dirt pathway. 

Turning the knob on his stereo to speak, Alexander asks, “Gilbert, may I ask a question? Do you know how to drive?”

Gilbert frowns, taking a nibble of his muffin. The answer is obviously ‘no’, but it makes him think. He had never really considered it before. All his life, he and his parents had had personal drivers—even during that period in France where funds had begun to dip dangerously low and his father had to sell off some of their land. He wasn’t even sure if his parents’ _themselves_ knew how to drive, and they had never offered to teach him. If he needed to go somewhere or do something, their personal driver was always on hand—practically spending his days waiting for the beck and call of the Lafayette family.

“No,” he says eventually, peeling the wrapper of the muffin back to take another bite. _John is such an excellent baker._ “I never needed to learn. We have personal drivers.”

“George doesn’t hire personal drivers. I need to sign you up for some driving lessons,” Alexander says, making a mental note of the fact. Though, there’s something on his expression—the way his nostrils flare a bit and his grip on the steering wheel tightens—that tells Lafayette he thinks the idea of the young man not knowing how to drive is absurd. “He isn’t going to always be around to drive you to where you fancy, and neither am I.”

The words come out chilly, and rude, so Gilbert ignores him. Something that John had taught him—whenever Alexander got short with them, the three of them would ignore him until he was feeling better. He turns his head to watch the passing scenery—what seemed to be a common pastime lately, a way to ignore everything else that is going on around him. The music emitting from the radio is playing faintly now, not loud enough to penetrate through the awkward silence that layers the car. But then Alexander sighs, and runs a hand through his dark hair—tousling his locks, making him appear even more disheveled than he usually did.

“I’m sorry, I don’t mean to snap at you. I just… that is a small privilege, you know? Not having to learn how to drive because you always have a driver on hand for your beck and call. I didn’t have that growing up.”

Gilbert raises an eyebrow, finally turns his attention back to Hamilton. There are heavy, dark bags beneath his eyes and his hands are clenching the steering wheel with such conviction his knuckles have begun to pale. Obviously, this is a sensitive topic for the young man.

Admittedly, Gilbert doesn’t know much about Hamilton besides what Washington had told him about how the two had met and the few tidbits that the man himself let slip. He knew that Alexander had studied at Columbia University for most of his graduate years before being introduced to Washington through a professor. He knew that Washington had taken him in when he was nineteen, was sculpting him into a cunning businessman fit to take on his empire one day—especially considering that there was no way Gilbert would be able to provide the man with any children—and that was pretty much the sum of it. There were things he had inferred—like the fact that he and John had somewhat of a doomed romance going on, or the fact that he craved George’s approval like a thirsty man in the desert. But otherwise…

“What do you mean?” Lafayette asks quietly. He is young, and maybe occasionally naive, but he isn’t stupid. He knows that not everyone had the luxury to be born into the lap of extravagance and wealth that he had. But he had assumed that Alexander had gotten his drive from a mother or a father with equal morals set in finding a purpose. From parents that had built their own companies from nothing but the dirt and dust. And it wasn’t often that he heard of stories of the less fortunate being as determined as Alexander Hamilton was. Or at least, that was what his father told him. _If they work hard, Gilbert, they wouldn’t need our handouts. But they don’t, which is why they stay on the bottom rung._

He watches Alexander’s adams apple bob as he swallows, and the grip on the steering wheel goes slack just a bit. After a few moments of Lafayette’s question hanging in the air, he answers with a calmness about him that the young man had never seen. “I was an orphan from a very young age. My father left when I was still a child, my mother died from a sickness when I was twelve. I was poor growing up, Laf. I didn’t have anything like personal drivers or large dowries for rich husbands. I lived on a small island in the Caribbean, and thought I would die there, too.”

He pauses for a moment to lick his lips, and swallows again. Gilbert says nothing—mostly because there is nothing to say. To hear Alexander talk about his strife breaks the young man’s heart. He couldn’t imagine losing both of his parents by the age of twelve, having no one to lean on for guidance or comfort. It was bad enough when his mother’s sanity slipped and it _felt like_ he was losing her. The loneliness creeps into his bones just thinking about it, he can barely fathom how a young Alex would’ve felt.

When Hamilton speaks again, there’s that fire in his voice. His eyes are practically ablaze. “But I wrote my way out. I worked and wrote and read until my fingers bled and my eyes watered. I stopped for _nothing_. And here I am. Living in a big fancy manor with my rich mentor, driving an expensive ass sports car, wearing top-notch _designer suits_. With a heir worth millions sitting to the right of me. It is… it’s hard, sometimes. To hear how you or John didn’t have to fight for the wealth you have. You never had to work for anything in your lives, it was all given to you on a gold-plated spoon. I didn’t have that.”

Lafayette bows his head so that he can stare at his hands, shifting a little in his seat and playing aimlessly with his fingers. He feels sweeping waves of guilt, hearing Alexander’s story. Here he was, living everyday of his life shrouded in opulence, when there were children all over exactly like his new friend. Lost, helpless, fighting for the next heel of bread in their bellies.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” he eventually musters out, because this time the silence falls on his shoulders like a thick, wool blanket. Hot and stuffy and suffocating. He looks up, eyes falling on Alexander again. “I was unaware of your past.”

Hamilton shrugs, pulling the sports car in and out of the lanes of the narrowing streets of New York City, doing his best to avoid the traffic that begins to crowd the streets early in the morning like this. They’re coming close to his neighborhood, he is beginning to recognize all of the shops that he would peruse in his free time, buying this and that and whatever else suited his fancy. Memories of his careless lavishness coupled with the sadness of Alexander’s story makes his stomach turn, and he tears his eyes away from the windows.

“It isn’t your fault. Nor is it mine. Or anyone else’s, for that matter. That’s just how the world is. Don’t waste any energy being sorry about it,” he says curtly, signaling that he is done talking about it. Lafayette nods his head in understanding, even though he doesn’t, really. He never will. He has always been and will always be the young rich heir married off to even richer man. He most likely will go his entire life never knowing what it is like to be hungry, or to want.

Alexander pulls down a familiar street, and Lafayette finds himself getting a bit antsy. His own house, his _real_ home, is so close now. He can make out the winding driveway, the lawn where he spent his early pubescence playing and frollicking. His old blue bike leans against the front of the house, still unmoved from his absence. In the front, their gardener tends to he and his mother’s rose bushes, and he can spot the limousine in which his family driver drove them around in parked dutifully near the end of the driveway.

When he pulls up to the front of the house, Alexander slows and unlocks the doors so that his companion can get out. “I’ll be back around to pick you up at around four, but if you want to leave before then, you can call me. Have fun.”

Lafayette thanks him and closes then car door, watching his friend speed off through his driveway before approaching the front door. He has his house keys jingling in his front pocket, but for some odd reason that feels inappropriate—so he brings his hand up to the brass knocker and slams it against the door a few times. There is shuffling behind the door before it swings open to reveal Nounou, looking as warm and jolly as she had before he’d left for school that day.

The elderly woman’s eyes brighten up the second she sees Gilbert, and she wraps her arms tightly around him—even though her head only comes up to her chest. Lafayette laughs and hugs her back, burying his nose in the soft white locks of her hair. She still smells oddly of gingerbread and laundry detergent, which gives him a rush of nostalgia and has tears prickling in her eyes.

 _“Oh, my son!”_ she cries, even though he is in fact, not her son. Nounou—French for Nanny, and what he’d called her since they’d met—had raised him once his mother had fallen ill. She had been the one to get him ready for school in the morning, to pack his sack lunches, to read him bedtime stories when his mother could not manage the strength or will to care after her own child. She was a bit like a grandmother to him, even though she had no relation to any of the Lafayette’s. He positively adored his Nounou—so much so, that when he turned eighteen and his father had thought of firing her, he’d raised so much hell that the man saw it easier to keep her around than let her go.

 _“Hello, Nou,”_ he grins, pulling away from the hug to examine the woman. She didn’t really do much around the house anymore as she was getting up in her years, and Gilbert had put his foot down over her doing anything beside the occasional baking of a batch of cookies. But still, he can tell by the way her hands are wet and his apron is smeared with colors that she’d been cooking. _“They haven’t been working you, I hope?”_

_“Oh, nonsense! Michel and Louise have been darling. Your father likes to joke that he knows better than to mess with his son’s Nounou.”_

Lafayette positively beams.

 _“Do you want to see your mother? She just had an… episode, but now she’s in bed. I can’t even get some broth past her lips. I worry for her health, Marie.”_ Marie. Gilbert’s technical first name. His Nounou was the only one in the world that got away with calling him that—especially considering he shared that name with his mother _and_ with Adrienne. His full name— _Marie-Joseph Paul Yves Roch Gilbert du Motier, Marquis de Lafayette_ —was a mouthful, but despite him urging his Nou call him Gilbert or Lafayette, she had called him Marie. Gilbert, she insisted, was his middle name. And Lafayette was his last name. And she’d be damned if she, as his family, called him by anything but his first.

He isn’t thinking much on any of those formalities, however. He is thinking about his mother’s recent _episode_. She had these occasional spikes in her mood where she would actually get out of bed, and do something besides mope about or cry. When she’d had her first episode, Lafayette had been thrilled. He was twelve then, and it had been the first time since her diagnosis that she got out of bed and took care of herself. All morning, his mother had seemed like her old self—the woman that he remembered from the early years of his childhood. Singing showtunes in the shower, dancing in the kitchen with him, making a breakfast for them that consisted of ice cream sundaes and chocolate cake.

But then she’d made him pack an overnight bag, and they’d driven halfway to Florida. His mother had assured him that the two of them were going to Disney World, and his father would meet them there. But that hadn’t been the case. She’d sporadically kidnapped her own son, and had been attempting to drive him to a ship that would take the two of them back to France. It wasn’t until the police had to bust down the door of their hotel and take him back home that Gilbert realized he needed to fear his mother’s episodes, not indulge in them. She spent a month in a psychiatric facility after that, and her relationship with his father only began to crumble since.

‘Episodes’ were more dangerous than his mother lying in bed all day.

Gilbert follows his Nounou up the stairs, down the hallway to his mother’s room. His mother’s room is always dark because she complains of headaches all the time, and cool despite her being smothered beneath blankets and sheets. There is an empty rocking chair beside her bed—Gilbert used to sit there before he moved in with Washington, and he expects Nounou had taken his place in his absence—and a small bowl of still-steaming soup on the nightstand. And his mother…

His mother is lying against her sea of pillows, blonde hair tangled and knotted. Her blue eyes are open, staring at the ceiling and watery with impending tears. She’s gotten more pale since he last saw her—her skin pallid, nearly translucent. And thinner. Her cheekbones jut out against her features, her face gaunt around the eyes. She looks nothing like the electric woman that Gilbert had once admired, but then again, he’s gotten used to his mother not looking like her old self.

 _“Mama,"_ he whispers, tiptoeing into the room and settling by the rocking chair. He takes her hand, brings it up to his lips. He is surprised by how cold her skin his. _“I’m home.”_

Louise turns her head to him, her eyes flickering with recognition before the tears she’d been holding back tumble down her cheeks. She lets out a small sob, brings the back of her hand up to her mouth in attempt to choke down her cries. The hand that Gilbert had kissed comes up to his face, running her slender fingers along his features.

 _“My sweet, baby boy,”_ she whispers, before outright sobbing. Lafayette moves from the rocking chair to the bed, holding his mother as she cries into his arms. This is not an uncommon occurrence, and he is dismayed to find himself accustomed to this. In the times where he needs to be comforted, where his mother should be holding him, there is always a role reversal. He rocks the two of them gently as she cries, rubbing her back and encouraging her to let all of her emotions out. _“Oh, my Gilbert! What has your father done?”_

 _“Mama, it is okay. I am fine, he hasn’t done anything to me,”_ he assures, eventually pulling away from the embrace. He isn’t sure if he’s referring to George or his father, but it doesn’t matter. He grabs the soup from the nightstand and takes a spoonful up. _“You need to eat, alright? You are wasting away before my eyes.”_

 _“Gilbert, I’m so sorry!”_ she continues through tear-clogged words, virtually ignoring him. _“I should’ve done more to stop him! I begged, but he said we needed the money, we needed the investment! He said your hand in marriage was worth more than a thousand companies but I—”_

 _“Wait, what?”_ he asks, cutting her off with confusion etched into his expression. What was she going on about? Louise was speaking as though his father had accepted money from Washington in exchange for the engagement, but in marriage contracts such as the one he had been entered in, a dowry was usually given _to_ the potential groom. Otherwise, it wasn’t an engagement and it certainly wasn’t a dowry but rather a selling of a person. Like a commodity. _“What are you saying?”_

 _“Nearly half a million dollars,”_ his mother sniffles, looking up at her son. Tears still stream in steady rivers down her face, dripping callously onto the bed sheets. _“That is what that man paid for the wedding contract.”_

Gilbert sucks in a bit of air through his teeth, though it does him no good. He feels as though he’s just been brutally punched in the chest, all of the wind knocked from him in one swift moment. His head swims with the reality of what his mother is saying, but he can’t bring himself to make any sense of it. Mostly because it simply _doesn’t_ make sense. There was no reason on Earth that George would’ve paid to be engaged to him—why _should_ he, when was one of the most eligible bachelors of New York? Unless… well, unless he hadn’t _originally_ intended to, and Michel had simply used the engagement as an opportunity to get ahead in his business. Had used his own son for some quick, easy cash. He feels dizzy and nauseous. The idea of his own father selling him to a stranger over money that he would’ve earned anyways… it sickens him.

Lafayette’s hands tremble as he brings the spoon to his mother’s lips, forcing himself to behave normally even despite the urge to throw the bowl across the room in his rage and daze. He knows that he has every right to be furious, to be upset with this truth—but his mother needs him right now, and it isn’t her fault his father had made the choices he had.

Still, he sees everything with such a striking form of clarity.

_I’ve already sent them the money…_

_I was attempting to escape the guilt accompanying the betrothal…_

The words ring in his ears as he slowly coaxes his mother to eat, operating solely on autopilot for the rest of his time home. He convinces her to bathe, changes her sheets, does everything the same as he would if he had just come home from a day in class instead of coming home from the man he’d been _sold_ to. Because that was the reality, wasn’t it?

He had been sold to George Washington.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OOF. just… OOF.


	8. ghost.

_**nine weeks until the wedding** _

Gilbert slowly becomes a ghost in the house he shares with Washington. For three weeks, he feels less as though he lives at Vernon Manor—what he learns the vast estate is officially named—and more as if he haunts it. He avoids his future husband like the black death, taking careful note of the older man’s schedule so that their paths never cross each other. It is admittedly small-minded to be so cautious as to tiptoe around what is to be his house, but he can’t help but feel more and more like a prisoner as his mother’s words weigh heavy on his mind.

In the early mornings, he doesn’t leave his bedroom until he is absolutely sure that Washington has gone off to work. He’ll often hear the man open his door just a crack—obviously longing for just a glimpse at his future husband—but he always pretends to be asleep. When the sun begins to set in the evenings, Gilbert retires to bed long before his future husband has the opportunity to catch sight of him. He feigns sleep again when Washington opens his bedroom door to check on him in the night, much to what appears to be the man’s dismay. George leaves messages for him through Hercules or Alexander, but he blanks them out when they’re speaking so he doesn’t have to hear them. In short, Lafayette does his best to pretend simply as though George Washington doesn’t exist. It almost works.

Early one gloomy Wednesday morning, during the third week of this pattern, John bursts into Gilbert’s room and shakes him awake. Through his morning grog, he hear George speaking with Alexander about business matters—so he rolls over in his sheets and pulls them over his head.

“No, no, get _up_ ,” John says, pulling his curtains apart and letting the meager amount of sunlight spill into the room. It’s cloudy outside again, but at least it doesn't appear as though it’ll rain. Gilbert peeks over the top of sheets at the man, takes note that he isn’t wearing the familiar stained apron over his clothes as usual. In fact, he looks as though he’s about to run a marathon. Clad in a pair of dark green jogging pants and purple tank top with a tiny little green on turtle on it, its the most informal he’s ever seen the chef. “Enough of this. Get up, and put on something you can run in.”

“Run in…?” Lafayette asks, sitting up in bed now. He rubs his eyes sleepily, while John places his hands on his hips and watches him with a look that is something akin to irritation. The idea of going for a jog _does_ sound nice—especially with the cool air outside preventing it from getting too hot. Besides, he’d been containing himself for the past three weeks by spending most of his time in the house. He missed the days of walking the grounds, stretching his legs.

Gilbert hadn’t exercised much recently, choosing instead to mope about. Mostly because it was easier to avoid Washington when there were a handful of distinctive places to hide in Vernon Manor. Though, he hadn’t always been such a recluse. When he’d been in grade school, Adrienne had dragged him into a litany of sports with her. Her mother forced her to join sports as a child in hopes that it would curtail some of that spirit of hers, and Adrienne refused to do anything without her best friend. Gymnastics, cheerleading, tennis, and even basketball during their eleventh year. She was an active young lady, and Lafayette hadn’t minded the excuse to get out of the house. 

After they’d graduated, he’d fallen in with the cheerleading crowd on his University. He wasn’t allowed to perform at games yet because he was still a Freshman, but the girls kept him active. Since he’d been missing classes lately—his father and Alexander were working closely together to get his classes transferred online, so that he wouldn’t have such a commute everyday—he hadn’t been working out with them as he usually did. It’s not until he truly sits down and thinks that he realizes he misses it. The girls, the cheer team, being active.

Gilbert still reluctantly slides out of bed, tripping slightly over his sheets to get to the bathroom. He hears John chuckle and tell him to meet him downstairs in fifteen minutes. He hurries in the shower, scrubbing down quickly though it’s a futile point—he’ll just shower again when they return from their run.

Once he is in a pair of jogging shorts he feels aren't too explicit, and a comfortable pair of running shoes, he takes the stairs two at a time until he reaches the landing. In the living room he spends an additional fifteen minutes stretching his limbs out, because he’d learned the hard way the effects of not stretching before any type of exertion. After cramping during a cheer and nearly collapsing the pyramid, he learned his lesson.

John is waiting for him in the kitchen, and the two share a breakfast of fruit cocktails each before heading out through the front door. Gilbert waits patiently for John to do his appropriate stretches before the two of them take off.  
  
Out in the slightly biting cold air, strong legs propelling him forward, Lafayette immediately feels in his element. The adrenaline that came with working out, the relieving way bones that had been at rest for too long popped, the burning feeling in his muscles as he pushed himself past boundary after boundary—that's what kept him coming back to it. He’d missed this—this feeling of _freedom_. He loves all of it—hell, even the gross sticky feeling of being sweaty and smelly after a long day. His cheerleading coach had once told them that every drop of sweat represented how hard he was working. And if he isn’t sweating hard, he isn’t working hard. And Laf had taken that to heart—making sure to break several good sweats a week, at least, before the rainy days of spring had trimmed his work out regimen.   
  
He’d admittedly been slacking lately, so the opportunity for a good run has him taking the lead ahead of John. His feet pound against the dirt pathway of the road, leading out of the gates and down the path of the forested trees. Despite John calling for him to slow down, Gilbert dutifully ignores the older man—pushing ahead until his lungs burn and his breathing is ragged. When he feels as though he might just collapse from exhaustion, he pushes himself even further. Strands of hair slip from his hastily made ponytail, tendrils of curly hair sticking to his face and forehead. His muscles feel as though they’re on fire, and he doesn’t realize he’s crying from the pain until the chilly morning air freezes the wetness to his cheeks.

Still, he doesn’t stop until the dirt path cuts off to what leads to the gravel road, and he can see cars speeding past. Gilbert slows then, his pace tapering off into a light jog before he stops completely. Breathing hard and aching, he places his hands on his knees and finally allows himself to catch his breath.

John comes thundering after him several minutes later, breathing equally as hard and sweating profusely. His turtle shirt is darkened and damp with his sweat, and Gilbert can only imagine how his clothes look. He collapses into the dirt against the base of a tree, deciding that his clothes were going to be filthy either way. John settles down beside him, offering up a chilled bottle of water Lafayette hadn’t even seen him grab when the two left the house.

“ _Merci_ ,” Gilbert rasps out, before downing at least half of the cooling liquid. It carves a path down his throat, cooling him down. When he comes up for air and passes the bottle back to John, he’s embarrassed by how greedy he’s been. “I… thank you.”

John shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly, and takes a few thirsty gulps of water for himself. The two of them sit in silence for what feels like an eternity, passing the bottle back and forth between each other and staring out at the passing cars and the skyline of trees. When all of the water is gone, John chucks the bottle into the forestry and stands.

“Let’s go back,” he says simply, extending his hand to the nineteen year old. Gilbert looks at it, but he doesn't take it. Every muscle in his body recoils at the idea of returning to that house, returning to that _man_ . He knows the last thing on Earth he wants to do is go back. He longs to keep running. Out onto the streets, onto the highway that leads into New York. Running as far as his legs can take him until he runs back to the life that he had a month ago. Back to his best friend, Adrienne and his mother and the carefree days he lived before he had a wedding and a fiance and had been _sold by his father_. Before he knew of George Washington.

His eyes begin to water despite his will to keep his tears locked inside, and he brings his knees up to his chest to rest his chin. Gilbert hugs himself like he used to do as a child, feeling small and suddenly so very scared. Tears slip down his face, mingling with the sweat and joining the wetness of his shirt. John looks around the woods helplessly, almost as if he’s searching for someone that knows how to deal with an emotional nineteen-year-old. 

“You need to talk to George. That’s all I’m going to say,” John says finally, his voice low and serious. Gilbert shakes his head like a petulant child, and buries his face between his knees. He’s doing his very best not to sob—he was tired of sobbing like a child, he was tired of being sad—but it’s a hard task. “Laf, you _think_ you understand. You think you get what happened. But you don’t. You’re just a child, you have no idea—”

“Just a child?!” Gilbert suddenly shouts, looking up at his friend. The sadness in his chest is slowly ebbed into blinding fury, his blood boiling with a rage he’d never felt before. The tears that stream down his cheeks now are burning tracks through the sweat on his face, and for some reason his entire body crackles with fury. “I’m a child?! Is that it?! If I’m so much of a child, why am I marrying someone nearly twice my age, John?! Why am I getting married at all?! Why was I sold to the highest bidder, the man with the biggest check?!”

John opens and closes his mouth several times, as though he’s searching for the words. When he comes up with none, he shrugs again and shoves his hands into his joggers. There’s quiet between the two of them again, this time the atmosphere around them crackling with Lafayette’s outrage. 

When John finally does speak again, his voice is terse and strained. As though he’s struggling to keep his own emotions from filtering through his words. There’s a stormy conflict on his expression, one that Gilbert has a hard time reading. Through the cloud of his anger, he decides he doesn’t care. “Honestly, why does it even _matter_? Think about it. Either way, with these arranged marriages, you’re sold. Whether it’s your future spouse or your parents paying the money, no matter which way the ship sails, you’ve been sold. Either way, you have no choice. So why does it matter?”

The words are like a glass of ice water has been splashed in his face. His jaw goes slack slightly, and he quickly averts his eyes to the forest floor. Though he doesn’t want to admit it aloud, John has just said the most truthful thing that Lafayette has heard in quite a long time. No matter what, dowry or not, he was going to get married in two months. It truly doesn't matter who is on the giving and who is on receiving end of the sum of money—his father or his fiance—because in both situations he doesn’t and won’t have a choice. He would do as he is told or else bring shame to his family and more importantly, endanger the power the man had worked to accumulate. He would walk down the aisle on his wedding day, and he would spend the rest of his life with this man.

“Come on,” John says as he begins walking back towards the estate, and this time Gilbert rises to his feet to follow. He swipes angrily at his tears, but it doesn’t really matter. The amount of sweat he’s drenched in masks the fact that he’d been crying.

He finds lately that many things recently don’t particularly matter. Like any of his say on the matters of his engagement.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> god i want to kill these two and im the writer like jUST LOVE EACH OTHER ALREADY JFC


End file.
